the sea thinks of a reunion every time we walk out the door
of a clothing and swim into its arms          when you enter a sea
chances are you will fly into          a ghost over time
the sea has registered more dead than the cemetery          once
a young boy went to play beach soccer and bloomed into a flower
inside the belly of the sea once          in junior high our history
instructor wore the same clothes for days          this man’s home
and belongings consumed the week before by a sea disease
once a party held on a beach transmogrified into a funeral after
the sea wrapped around bamba and squeezed him so tight that
he could fit inside a casket          one time in the belly of a taxicab
in the belly of sinkor traffic in the belly of this shithole          country
my phone yelled          it’s the news of a cousin erased by
the mediterranean          throughout the remaining distance i paused
breathing and blinking          a perfect way to save this city from flooding
from the ocean of mess that has gathered in my eyes
back home our house grew hoarse from          screaming his name

Ayouba Toure writes from his room in Paynesville, Liberia. He is a disciple of Dr Patricia Jabbeh Wesley, and his work has been published (or is forthcoming) in Olongo Africa, Eremite Poetry, and elsewhere.