The Day That Rejected Your Visa Application
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.
About the Author
Bola Chinelo is a Los Angeles based writer who received her Bachelor's of Arts degree from UC Berkeley.