My country calls it sowing
sixteen pellets in a young
boy’s head. This is where it rains
silver storms. Crows bark before
the light fractures in a thousand
directions, seeping into azure
fissures. My country calls it sewing
unions. There is a pack hunting
outside margins of civility, for the
rain is never less than metal showers;
even birds have learnt to read
the language of burnt holes in
their domain. It rains the smell of
floras on stems of silver lava. My
country calls it owning, the waste of
a life if not having lived it shorter.
And dawn’s whinny on rigid hooves.
We celebrate the cracking of fire
like it is the only substance we know.
My country calls it elevating
every minor to the quick level;
the hands of silver tombs – smooth
palms yet to learn to crush mosquitoes.
How else will they learn to survive
anthropological upheavals when they arrive?
Countries such as mine deserve silver
linings on the horizon, where they
originated from the holes we now
call pores. Countries such as mine
get credited so little for inventions:
we are the benchmarks of rain,
the weeping silvers
the staining nebula
the confetti of red.
