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Awuor Onguru


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There’s thingsI cannot say about the bomb that went off at 14 Riverside Drive for

example I cannot saythat my father wantedto be jobless, and on his

way backfrom drinking  ****** I cannotsay that someone

was in love with himthat very moment

(she was carrying both their lives on her back)or that he is proud to have been

the one to feel the cupboard handles rattle and in fact,I cannoteven

saythat everyone walking down  Riverside Drivewas thinking about givingtheir

lives to some murkycause some  christian make believego out

and bethe light in the darknessor the story on CNN it’s time to fight,

the fight against terrorismor what is now calledour  own tongues

and what used to be calledprejudicebut is now called

watch outfor the muslim manthat is your next door neighbor

he is walking into a hotel lobby and

he is the one  who will ruin your home


December’s wet afternoon beats blindly onto golden rapier grass

as the wind blows gently into my grandmother’s wrapper

which inflates like a summer balloon:  gentle air filling up on all sides

lifting slowly , begging to take flight if this were another day


she would acknowledge itthat same wind that taught her to pick the best corn

to smile at the prettiest birds

 now she furrows her lipsas she turns the millet onto its sides

feet making patternsin new-born seed

stalks tossed                 in     round, warm, lightheadscarf falls beyond       neck

to hide             beads of sweat from wandering eyes      supple breasts bounce             gently in

tandem with the beat of work-dance:the step of   breath and the rhythm of feet


a secret drumbeat forms, this:her military reaping and surelynothing can evade

a woman of the sun     not               worms that slither in-between the branches or

  cats that stalk in sultry silence                   waiting for meal or help or   hand

  a single mayfly lands on the yellow-clothed back: ignoredshe works in silence, this

her praise and worshipshe is turning, turning, the day away stopping  for

  nothing but the religious turning, in the heatthe shuffle,of the feet

the taming ,of the wheat: land

that she has worked for decades   bows down in quiet submission        the birds

cry out

  in songjoyous…

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