Injera is the roof of a home,
the backdrop of a newborn's first portrait,
a cradle into a world outside its mother's womb;
A promise of something to follow
A quilt that holds the stew of day's work
and years of sacrifice;
A map of a quilted country
So many bullet holes
A federal state should not be possible;
For the love of Injera
Flags pause flying,
Tongues stop flapping,
Voices stop singing,
The feet of the diaspora drag back
And grudges of a thousand years
Bend their pride at the circumference
Of a full, steaming Mesob
And the stare of Injera.
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© 2020
Bushra Kokeb
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Solstice: A Collection
Poetry○○○ The dying year weeps into the shoulder of tomorrow, The wails of a child are no match for its gloom. For the majesty of winter's love child, what am I to do but bow and bleed in the wake of the solstice? ●●●
