for the ruins of mali

for the remnants of amina’s walls

for the resistance of the vanguard

who never die, and always multiply 

for that struggle that was thrust into the face

of every new-born noble 

for growing up a seedling between the world and me

for the falconers who have never heard the falcon

for the centre that has never held

for the family crest that is not cotton, that is 

instead iron, for iron teeth

for iron souls, housing iron wills

for skeletons propping muscular bodies, fortified 

by iron

for the cadres and the comrades, the flesh 

that passed through cape coast

for that flesh too luminescent too honourable to remain

for our long long antennae, for the 

promise of summer, 

for keeping my eyes glassy and 

warm

for me east facing a blood orange sun

for waiting on that first fist

to rupture 

from beneath my feet