CRISIS

It’s all coming back
Raining like stones being intentionally thrown
From the heavens by our maker
When he burned my arms
As those in green passed
Those in brown relaxed
And those in white hid

II
His tears caught no attention
His hurts struck no sympathy chord but mine
My tears flowed like fountains
Going up and down the hills of my eyes
As the one who made me stood harmed
With me as her glued television
It’s all coming back to me

III
It is a place to be cared for
When sicknesses’ nets do arrest
A place to be tended to
When accidents break bodies and tears skins
A place to be
When death chases
But it is this same place
My fruit burned
In the womb of this mother healer
Maybe it saw me alien
A southerner in a West Hospital
Situated in the bosom of the north
Queer, sitting to help babysit
To volunteer to care for others arrested by ill health
What an unpleasant thought rain

But an eye can never be for an eye for me
Amoafowaa Sefa Cecilia (c) 2015