My language is dying the same way …
Chris Abani
I …
It was the hornbill that spoke it. …
It’s like flying in your dreams, she said. You empty …
Metal giraffes march up the bluff …
There are stones even here …
my mother put down her knife and fork, …
The body is a nation I have not known. …
The telephone never rings. Still …
Twenty-five hundred tins of tuna, …
A stream in a forest and a boy fishing, …