Farai Chaka

What l write about when l write about my city

Not what we thought was kindness coming into our cupped hands
like pigeons     striped white feathers     no, not that     not the naked
flame by the side of the road to remind that nothing was immune
not the armour l wore     pursed lips     hands buried inside the water in
my pockets     the word God on my tongue like both weapon and aftertaste
no, not the way the city burnt with heat     flooded with rain     spitting
out the extremes of each element at us     not even the days stacked
upon themselves like fruit ready for collapse     no, not that   rather
the way the city worshipped us into small gods     walked us down
tarmac streets to end us so we could begin     the way morning
light blew up front yards into technicolor films     how a blade
of grass became immense     the way summers turned cruel
towards what we noticed least     cyclists blow out in fatigue
squinting against the sky and pedalling on     the way trees looked
naked in dusk     stripped of colour but glorious in their silhouettes
etched against windows     the way you could love a thing into flames
and still keep it     hold it against the sun     the way you could cry
and still continue     continue

Farai Chaka is a writer from Harare, Zimbabwe. He is an avid reader who enjoys long walks and horror shows.