by Bola Chinelo

So I must admit, I’ve been lurking

around for hours with no awareness of

 

where to plant my feet. Or where to drape the

topline of my shoes —in the sky’s hollow

 

or the mountain’s poking cap? Since we are on the

subject of drawing lines in the sand, what color do I use

 

and which side will you permit me to stand

on? I’ve always gawked at the idea of sankofa—

 

of returning back to the lion’s mouth and expecting it

not to roar. If it collects me in the margins,  may I call

 

it a mirage, if not home? Before the street lights

and the stars wither into morse code flickers,

 

and the trees brush the sky into scatter and the winter’s

end comes galloping rendering me headless, I want you

 

to know I have a resting place. Where my smiles contort

their inner smiles and the unlocking of hands beguile

 

the toughest of Ham’s

descendants.