Every evening
when sun’s dying rays set low
my flushed mind flies over the ocean,
straining even more a body bruised,
by much sweat and more tears.
Repairing slumber must wait.
I am unable to wish away memories,
no force can erase histories,
tales of my cruel fate.
Every evening
I sneak back to my village at dusk
watch from afar—a mere onlooker.
Women drift back from the river
heads adorned with fractal tresses,
scalps shining with fresh shea butter.
Voices break the thud of crickets,
I need to know their song,
laugh at the world with them.
Every evening
shaping the past for the future
old women and men
tell tales, pipes alight around campfires,
children enthralled by each epic meeting.
Clay pots simmer on wood fires
with a promise of a feast.
I rush through my dream before it expires,
as a drummer broadcasts his first measure.
Every evening
I am a living ghost
easily ignored,
dreams just an evasion
from my salvation.
Why endure such existence;
to hear and not be heard,
to see and not be seen,
to love without feedback?
I remember but they will never know
I am singing the blues, head in a bow,
my only plea swinging back,
the fatal womb of my exclusion.
Each time I must hug my mother,
it is my evening prayer.