Poet-Today | Gimba Kakanda | The Arts-Muse Fair
I am not your plural I’m not this unit Of a memory that grows from nowhere I’m not the geometry of your brush This monochrome is only the shade of your eyes For I’m not black, I’m not white I’m the artwork of a thousand ancestors You know me, don’t you? I’m not your noun I may be the conspiracy of an unlit bedroom A mistake made in a whisper But I’m not the negative of this camera I’m the adjective Of a secret that never was I’m a reality Only seen by stained binoculars I’m not this verb These things I do are mere prophecy Of my bank I’m a prisoner of my history I’m not this pronoun So if you don’t know the gender of my shadows Remember the lamps that banish them I’m not the photograph of your imagination Your accent calls to me But I’m not the tenses of your broken English Nor the slang of your city For you cannot count the alphabets of my story I’m not the identity card of my kind I’m my biology A reservoir of infinite memory I’m my diseases,