For Barkin Ladi
In war, people leave their burdens behind

and I too have tried to leave my language
but it wouldn’t wash off my tongue.

All my life I’ve been running.
My body knows violence and its provenance:

Barkin Ladi, a city buried in its ruins.
Here, I lost an arm. Some nights it tugs at me

in a dream. Other nights, I’m in a pool of sweat,
afraid that the burning city may find me.

In this dream, I hear the small voice of my father
talking in his language of loss. He says

“boy, your body is a city of bones 
and though it’s not set to run

you will never own it.” 
My father is a mound of ash.

I see the fire in his eyes 
and I begin to run

I’m running from my father 
who is running from the city

that owns him.