after the war,
some people still remember who they are.
they pick up their knees from the smashed ones of their family members
tie dried bones together with raffia palm
gather singed hair into a sack
and leave the war zone without looking back.
they make homes
out of seashells
out of the ocean.
they say whatever they remember
from their old languages
with shaky, white tongues.
women sew their white wrappers into flowy gowns
make necklaces from pebbles of their detonated homes
and reach into their stomachs
to tear out their dead foetuses
to plant again. it’s a new dawn, we will make home
only of what we’ve got.