I Am What They Dream About When Traveling Around The World by Tares Oburumu


Friend, you say, and I remember Mississippi,
that city shaped like a gondola. I remember

writing about boats carved like the elbows
of a beautiful lady on the thighs of her lover

who always read, and lie down to sleep
like an open book. We came to this island to read

by the sea, and we vowed to leave by ship. So much
for Alice to do at home; incantations, prayers, magic,

voodoo, and rudder, to bring us back to ourselves,
lost in the skin of John Boston the white labyrinth

who teaches geography, and believes in the Globe,
not maps not borders, the single country which leads us

to Hitler’s vision reflected on the UN building in the U.S
hammered with the butt of a gun into the roots

of our brains. I love you, I say, and you open The Herald
to the page where Alice dies and they are to bury her

close to a hundred years old Monica. How long have I been here,
I ask. The question all wings, carries me on air across

the ocean. Child of water on metal ferry, going home
to mother, leaving his origin for the white girls to fondle.

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