barely into the third year/ the son the beast sired with an ogre woman
demands that your sons protect the mother’s manyatta
& your sons will pick other people’s sons
out of buses ferrying the smell of sprays masking suffering and hand-me-down fears
from Garbatullah into Little Mogadiscio
through Nguutani, Ngoliba and Landless
because a laminated piece of shit/ is called truth
in your land.
& mothers in Bondeni and Witu will count to ∞, bodies
marked with the number of the/ beast,
(a bullet lodged into a suspected gangster costs only a thousand five hundred +
a hole in a mother’s heart)
— each has eight—
the rest of her sons died.
of bad governance.
the lemniscate has no meaning
here; hide your sons.