I keep wanting to kill you.
Craig used to sleep with his neck at an angle; always spying on thoughts not his own. (An Adam’s apple becomes most visible at night in search for lost manhoods).
Yesterday on my way to Nowhere, the Darod man appeared again— with his sick camel—(I wonder if it died). In two days I might have a spear— stolen from a friend’s friend with whom he shares a roundavel in Lokichar.
In some instances—perhaps in the future, she might think of you—like this: the man
friend into whose body she has been. He sleeps with his hand on his crotch, dreaming away all the nightmares from her future: Women with bodies that float like dead fish thrown at eagles in Naivasha.
(Why do you smell of so much yesterdayness?)
If I awake from this eternal wakefulness I might repeat a story told by my grandmother, of how a child’s child born into the bush became my reflective self
sharpen spears for tomorrow’s war with mistakes that will no longer count, after this nothingness ends.