I, too, am made
of ants long past;
of groves too sacred to name.
Of histories too noble to last.
The invaders, they desecrate;
I stayed. I am too fast
for time to catch me. For lesser men
to make a mockery of my creativity.
I am not Hopkinson, Walcott, Thumboo, LeGuin;
I have my own methods for waking Inspiration up on a whim,
that fateful Muse, from whence he sleeps
on the other side of the rubbish bin. Across from me;
I claimed the area from whence the chickens fled
when they came to our little scrap of Earth, and proclaimed us both made of sin.
You do not recognise the sacred.
Jenti Hierosa pun ngka kuniseh kung bos:
there is no reason for us to look any further within
when that is all we have ever done, in the parking lot
where you discarded us and our plays and our poems.
You said we would never win
prizes. We accepted this
and Inspiration, that bawdy, bare-chested man with bruises
bluer than the barrelling ocean view---
He has gone on to win literally everything else.
I hear this news frightens you,
makes you insecure.
Don't be; what was always rational is finally reclaiming its rationality
in the collective. What was denigrated and dismissed as disgusting
has completely ignored all attempts to fuck with it, and come back fighting
like only one bent into oblivion's own sacred geometry could. Always shot on sight
too many murders will always give rise to a light so verdant,
when little Lomé man-boys try to sell you "African viagra", reusing their own words, you just replied
"Thank you, but I already fuck like a buffalo."
The fire-ants march on.
You once probably said
the new colony is in sight.
We live in a better bit of temporal earth:
this is where, once more,
Inspiration steps ashore
to make what was left behind right.
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