Do the flyswatters know

 

that inside the belly of unheard voices

every hummingbird started off as

a bug? That a drop of our blood could drink

sunshine & become white sand beckoning the seas

 

& the oceans that eat up our feet to the knees

& make us dissolve in that forgotteness? Continue reading “Arrival As A Form Of Departure: the lamentation of an immigrant by Bola Opaleke”