The Dining Table by Gbanabom Hallowel
Read the poem "The Dining Table" by Gbanabom Hallowel
Dinner tonight comes with gun wounds. Our desert tongues lick the vegetable blood—the pepper strong enough to push scorpions up our heads. Guests look into the oceans of bowls as vegetables die on their tongues.
The table that gathers us is an island where guerillas walk the land while crocodiles surf. Children from Alphabeta with empty palms dine with us; switchblades in their eyes, silence in their voices. When the playground is emptied of children`s toys who needs roadblocks? When the hour to drink from the cup of life ticks, cholera breaks its spell on cracked lips
Under the spilt milk of the moon, I promise to be a revolutionary, but my Nile, even without tributaries comes lazy upon its own Nile. On this night reserved for lovers of fire, I’m full with the catch of gun wounds, and my boots have suddenly become too reluctant to walk me.