Inspired by the Western media coverage of the Dusit Hotel terror attack in Nairobi.
At the Dusit restaurant in Nairobi
men slumped over tables, crowded
with laptops and smashed plates, dead
from gunshot wounds.
This is now where your hands pick
what eyes consume. Our dead
displayed like a commodity. A spider
dead in its web, its dead body billowing
in the interlace. A body at final rest
weighs twice as much, I am sure
if offered the chance to see how
their body parades the news, bullet-ridden,
their sadness will be, too. Holding
it will feel like a small sun,
rolling through their skin. I am
touching the future with the tip
of my tongue like a snake, still the news
gives freely, but it rarely gives
a body in snow. Not that
it’s something I want to see,
but there is a comfort knowing all
corpses are the same, with all slates
of silence clipped to their cells.
A body like mine
isn’t worth a thing in life,
why should it in death?
About the Writer:
Saddiq Dzukogi is the author of Inside the Flower Room, selected by Kwame Dawes and Chris Abani for the APBF New Generation African Poets Chapbook Series. He is a recipient of the Othmer Fellowship from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, where he is studying Creative Writing. His recent poems have appeared in Kenyon Review, African American Review, Gulf Coast, Prairie Schooner, New Orleans Review, Best American Experimental Writing Series, and Verse Daily.