A Thank You

To the remnants of our shared despair this letter dawns. To the world's forgotten operas which played and still does, a trey of soap for the first of worlds to abuse to a third power.

To the phantom of my integrity, your shadow and what constant reminders your hand plays a tone for in the washing of my heart, always.

To the swan of my soul's dusk painted lake from which her feathers, light-hearted & glee, has always bared the only reflection of forever for me, that is love and of a hibernating,

dancing, gyrating glow my contrast could or would only protrude, I prey for you only because praying is lonely.

Of you only I am of life, cause see, I saw the ripples of our intertwining waving a sinister fate only the softest of spirits would bank like seas, bound to break us for sure/shore.

I'll meet you there, anywhere.

I'm half circled without you, just how you are without me, infinity. Sometimes I wonder if we signed a contract prior to life with some discrepancies like suffering

Extremities, together.

See - like grains that sanded the essence of my father's father, no money could love me as much enough as my father with his currency of self, projected - narcissistic, the belt -

nor could even my own bio, just logically, a mother that is. We'll get back to that.

To fathom a tethering heart which challenged the threading of politics' flesh; I mean organs a thousand times more sickled, embodying the form of road blocks by bodies with bones

and guts sewn together through clay, conclaves and huts; tribalism and hate, tiresome, a country in a cell from a wake, mortar shots you drove through. To risk a child soldier's system,

I'm talking checkpoints where forms of systematic rape came in plethoras like styles of the Kama Sutra, cocaine and gunpowdered nerve endings, you drove through. Pushed even.

To drive by and through triggering zombie units, younger than the son you risked your soul for but projected your being through, one that never shared your blood, you drove through, that's something. To withstand the beatings of society's ills, ill - equipped - whipped - even Aunty Yolanda - with honor mentioned she would've never mothered a fatherless child, especially one of hers not - at that, see? knots of the heart you drove through still. I can still smell it, the diesel of a country - poor, that complimented the echoing sounds of a beastly satire like Elvis’ pelvic, I mean fat Elvis. AK’s that forty sevened the steeled drums of ears and M’s that sixteened the high hats of teens with tips as hollow as the U.N. it seemed - despair in the 90s, you know, sleepy, what a dream in West Africa’s steam.

That back seat was thunderous, Nissan Pathfinder was it?

just mom and me and a war unforeseen. Imagine how many borders we crossed together - my struggle with yellow fever and typhoid, the red sand beneath us and your bosom that went far. There’s so much between us that my heart can’t speak of. I want to thank you for being the beaker of my nourishment. Too many times had we faced the trials of death together. Remember when that rogue fellow threatened to grenade our home? There’s 87 minutes left at this pace for the challenge. Tomorrow’s my birthday, after tracing the horizons of Oahu’s charm I’m realizing that I couldn’t be who I am without you being who you are. The greatest of moms. How dare I commit the audacity of an attempted suicide when all the effort graced by your palms buttered my soul. Borderline personality disorder can’t compare to the laces you wear, for a wolf is of a dog at his or her most sincere, I’ll live for you. These scars will too.

Thank you.