SINCE HER BABIES DON'T CRY BY ESSAH COZETT

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.