by Luke Otley
Trouble followed me effortlessly
across the desert three thousand miles, a dirt shag rug lives
at my feet, black armies scurry in mad method,
distant dark clouds are bloated
with message, trees seem dead
all year round, hollow trunks brittle and still,
shrubs offer only thorns, lightening snaps
at featureless plains, grandfather storm clears his throat
to begin a story that must stir
the muddy banks of river history,
bored with war’s broken record,
bored with how sweet men still find the taste of blood.
Something heavy thumps near, dust animates
under wind’s command, rain squabbles on the roof.
I thunk close doors, I roll up windows,
for whatever is coming.
I drew inspiration for this poem from this song by Ismail Ahmed