a picture of the section of the akodi orisa

Independence Day

Independence Day

Mother, why birth me black

in a white caul

with a white umbilical chord

feeding me off a tube

connected to your navel

from my prosimian body?

That is why

I kick you so hard

Can’t you see

the world is fractured

along colored lines

inside this clammy kiln?

Your pot of burned clay

in which you cook your tricks

has shades of sienna

dealing us bad cards

where they call the clay black

to whitewash your son.

Mother, the caul of life

in which I travel forth

is a white suit

suited for your tribe

made for the land

of snow, ice and cold,

You, know mama

that in our land

the forest is hot

but my father is lost

because the amniotic membrane

covers my identity from reality.

Mother, you did

not give me independence

I no longer recite

your endless anthems:

I already was alive

before you became pregnant

So how could you

claim to have borne me?

you took my life

when you birthed me

and I’m now learning

to tear your art.

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