Where is our ancient town?
Where is our ancient town? / Oh, father, who am I? / Where is our ancient town? / Where is our city?
Basement Refuge
This rented basement is soundproof, so when / the bass guitar of homesick, make-up band shudders / for a gone homeland, its resonance / pounding into the ground floor, / island children become the beat
Gratitude
As I was kidnapped / As I was disappeared / As I was tortured / As I was murdered / My only consolation / Was / Your Words
Moon Blues
When the flooding starts, and the rich flock to / their yachts, the rest of us will inherit the beach-front views / only to climb up trees and whine at God — but you promised!
and how shall i walk when the street sings of fire?
they uploaded a song / before the blood dried. / it asked us to leave. / leave what? / the land that remembers our ancestors’ coughs, / the wells we named after heartbreak, / the callouses of our dead / still softened in its soil?
Standing Ovation
In America, a murderer receives a standing ovation. / Meanwhile, bodies tally against the ground faster / than we can count. / I can’t quite decide what is more disturbing; / the chilling sound of applause cheering genocide, / or the large-scale catastrophe scorching the world.
operasi seroja
the night comes for us, / when mercenaries / scan palm leaves / for drops of blood / of martyrs. martyrs who / write poems about / the living.
How to Survive the Apocalypse
At some point, / you’ll stand on the porch, / watching a hydrangea fight / for its life in the wind, / and think: / This is survival. / This is all it ever was.
Who Let You In?
“Who let you in?” / “How can you afford to walk through / these doors?” / “Wrong color, wrong place.”
Dry World
Heaven has sailed far from me / My Earth is sinking like a boat / Wind lifts dust to the mountaintop. / Everything that belongs to me scatters / Soya beans, sorghum, bananas blow away / My world has been swept away by wind.
Are You Still Trying to Tell Me Something About Mercy?
I rebel, I rebel to stay in the house tonight, / there’s a war on the streets, and I have been asked to fight. / My mother won’t look at me, and my father’s gone cold, / and the only gift I’ve gotten was not to grow old,
Ars Poetica
that to become a poet / you need to have had your home / stolen from you / your dreams confiscated, / your hopes held hostage
His Tousled Hair, His Toothy Grin
When I settled in America, / anti-apartheid meetings thrilled me- / Injustice anywhere is injustice / everywhere scrawled on walls.
Gatekeeping
Meanwhile, hell writing another bill of sale, / buying territory for expansion, / gentrifying dreams, redlining / degrees of treachery. / In a world of flames, / rent ain’t affordable.
The Ancestor’s Song
I read that you walked / across the continent / searching for your / ancestral home / 3 small moving dots / seen from the wide / sky’s view
color you dark
if i could color you dark, / i would. / you’d feel that bullet in your chest / as they wear that silent pin. / they trade your brown skin best / for the unarmed cost of melanin.
the Decolonial Passage 