Slow Train Slow Writing

December 17, 2014 § Leave a comment


Theirs was a time of red dust in open mouths.
Have yam, sah? Have salt? Have water?
Smiling gone from the vocabulary,
any man with shoes would be swarmed by the blank-faced angels of our sweeping famine.
Living just got hard; death was never so easy
as in the swollen belly of starving Biafra.
Take your snaps, pretty snaps
to murmur over with knowledgeable sympathy back home.
Igbo is dying and only stains of blood remain in the dirt.

Possessive, question, gerund, semi-colon, directive, proper noun.

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