Burnt Men I Can’t Name

My brother carved a map to show us how to run,
and he guides his index finger through our bodies
to locate a refugee camp burning in our stomachs. So, I search for you in Nairobi
at the mosque to steal your fear. And I watched the city spread before us
—gay men lining up,
and angry women in the mouths of young boys searching for refuge.
Where we hid, women raised their skirts to show us homes,
to give us history, and to teach us how to escape from grief.
There’s a village at the end of my prayer, perishing,
to the bastards who walked off with my brother from sleep,
to be lynched on trees seeking sound.
Chapter one:
It always starts with your fear running back to you,
to pay homage to soft boys in your eyes, to remember the sadness of earth.
Chapter two:
There are black males in your bones, travelling from country to country,
to escape from a mob marking their bodies.
Chapter six:
And burnt men I can’t name walk in your veins
like voyagers, guiding their fingers through borders on the map,
to move out from an area prone to earthquakes