There is grit in the air,
fragments of torture
injustice
via newsfeed, live feeds
daily grit
yesterday and today
everyday
we navigate a grit storm
and try to save ourselves
my friend finds pictures
in inconvenient places
stops suddenly
on roads and street corners
Has me wait
While he makes a frame
for this discarded stain,
that broken brick
Grit has become a way of life
Brexit. My friend will have an Irish passport
and I will not
Still I am lucky. I have two passports
one that gets me in to Ireland
to my friends’ foremothers’ endz
where the earth smells good.
and the water never fails
earth water running brown, down hills, under my feet
clear sky water lashing, rinsing me through
lakes and oceans in which I will not swim no matter who says what a fine day it is
and there is grit of course
always grit
Africa.
my friend makes us the picture
our family walking on sand
baobab trees in the frame
and a fishing boat
and the seven of us
unaware of the lens
with our backs to the sun
and to the grit we hope
our eyes forward
the I and I
wrapped in our beloved Mamaland
You think you might
in the right circumstances
with a favourable current, a tailwind,
escape
outrun this gritty system
except Babylon is a photo bomb
a where’s Wally on a page
always somewhere in the frame
we the navigators
seeing how the land lies
its sunsets, shadows, deadly edges
we take up tools
dig for the maps drawn under our skin
