West of the Mesurado River
my city was built
between two worlds.
At dawn, I sat on my Grandma's porch
overlooking Sinkor, as the sky
reflected a ripe mango.
My cousins told me about the drought,
current cuts, and how bad the roads are.
Suddenly, everyone got quiet
as a young girl walked down the road.
Palm oil stains on her shirt
as her slippers flapped dust.
They said her big belly babies
eat each other in the womb.
Once she birthed twins in the city
but had to bury one in the river.
They call her, witch, because she sips
cane juice and gambles with eternity.
When the village sleeps
she gathers sand, salt, and kola nuts
aching to resurrect her stillborn.