Bullets for Sale

For every time I hear the sound
My heart remembers home,
If only I knew what it felt like,
I would call my shadow by its first name.
Look at what these sands have become
a dark whirlwind oozing silence
blood for the names written on each rifle
the sound of the names each is meant for.
I am bounded by fear
little babies death is all I hear
between Potiskum and Funtua
home is an itching silence
a slithering hiss of glass and tide
ocean beneath songs .
So listen to what the market says
if there’s a sky, let us sun it
If there’s a cloud,
let rain fetch it.
I have heard of these stories
and I am sorry to be part of the song.

Ruddapoet