Cosmonauts Avenue

of my arm. Garnished with the hue
of ripe lemons, a wave of pleasure travels
through the provinces that form my body.
Accosted by a patrol of eyes between halves
of a stroll, they race along the path of my arm.
Tongues dream of a tirade. Fists ache
to translate the situation into a riot.
O Nigeria, before closure of a prayer
on your behalf, my tongue regurgitates
the God given to you. I have no voice
is the bloom of what you seeded
into my mouth & watered with the glint
of a rifle coughed up from darkness.

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