In My Home-town There Are No Apples
or grapes or fruits trapped in plastic
containers. my home-town is a lush
field of red-earth barren to the touch
but there are real things like red
pepper that can send you into a
parabellum. there are red feet caked
from walking. there are no cars or buses
or noise. the tallest man in my
home-town is a rough-bark iroko.
the sweetest child is a cherry
the one with seedy entails, the one
with a cankerous mouth.
in my home-town i dine in the open,
i eat rain. i bath in blood. tell me
what’s redder than that. in my home-town
i am part of a sect that congregates deep
in the forest where phalanx palm
trees bully daylight into night.
in this sect i’m a chorister, i sing
to shrubs and undergrowth
until a tiger kisses my breath. tell me,
what’s realer than that?