Home is disintegrating into flakes of Earth.
No matter what you say of the stomach,
it doesn’t still grind like the boys on the street.
Every time the breeze blows, what is left of this home–
all our pride behind feathers is skied to the whole world.
I know of a boy who couldn’t watch his mother smoke fish
on a wedge. He now makes fire, twice the tower of babel,
for a clan to swim & become a steep of sand.
I have a friend known for preying peace in this home.
I think he enjoys soiling solace more than egg sauce on spaghetti.
We were once safe here. Everything was fine before some boys
grew strength to lift destructive tools against our father’s house.
In this home, I was healed, many times.
I remember clothing every cut I reaped from peers’ play
with sand– what my surrogate mother called daring tetanus.
In this home, I was mindless of language.
I dared anyone, anything & still stay alive.
Imagine calling God to rain fire down in place of rain.
God, an ear to the heavens: how do I rebuild this place?
In what language do I programme this home whirling with the wind?

– Blessing Omeiza Ojo