Semilore Kilaso
The Making of Soot
Yesterday, I saw a boy burn in flames.
His frail body, tattooed in scars became charred remains.
I watched agony enter and leave his body
in some sort of exchange —
an entropy of tissues becoming soot.
Like me, nameless strangers stood and watched as the mob
exorcised the boy who stole a cup of staple to stay alive.
The burial of his lineage and rebranding of his soul
was a ritual of tyres, petrol, sweat, and burning flesh.
Here we do not tolerate thieves, we expunge even the smallest
The other day, we held placards,
soliciting the revival of our nation caught in the inferno
of its own flame.
Like the boy, we sought for life in this country
where everything is out to kill us.
The government shut us down, fired bullets to silence
our voices in the same way the mob lit the boy.
We screamed in fear till our voices went with the wind
and found the boy’s sonic.
Our brittle bodies gave into the war they waged against us.
You should have seen how we ran, buried ourselves in fear,
sought asylums in countries where we are made nothing.
We ran across Atlantic. Atlantic got us.
We ran knowing to be made nothing
beats to be burnt to soot.
His frail body, tattooed in scars became charred remains.
I watched agony enter and leave his body
in some sort of exchange —
an entropy of tissues becoming soot.
Like me, nameless strangers stood and watched as the mob
exorcised the boy who stole a cup of staple to stay alive.
The burial of his lineage and rebranding of his soul
was a ritual of tyres, petrol, sweat, and burning flesh.
Here we do not tolerate thieves, we expunge even the smallest
The other day, we held placards,
soliciting the revival of our nation caught in the inferno
of its own flame.
Like the boy, we sought for life in this country
where everything is out to kill us.
The government shut us down, fired bullets to silence
our voices in the same way the mob lit the boy.
We screamed in fear till our voices went with the wind
and found the boy’s sonic.
Our brittle bodies gave into the war they waged against us.
You should have seen how we ran, buried ourselves in fear,
sought asylums in countries where we are made nothing.
We ran across Atlantic. Atlantic got us.
We ran knowing to be made nothing
beats to be burnt to soot.
Biography
|
Semilore Kilaso (she/her) is a poet and student Quantity Surveyor, who loves to collect photographs of humans, architecture, wildlife, and landscape. When she is not playing Scrabble or reading books, she is reading lines from architectural drawings. You can read her works here https://linktr.ee/SemiloreKilaso or reach her on Twitter @ooreola
|
