Their ribs stood out, with prongs of bird-like
feet and insular palms. We made ourselves
a glass of violin so we could see what the ruin
looked like in the chaos of it all. At Seme Border
lives are sprawled like peas from a pod. A metal
is hanging over a man’s shoulder blade, and the
traffic lights are blinking awkwardly— on the
border, within Benin, a thirty minutes drive from
Badagry, the smell of gasoline and burnt pipeline
fills the air. The cyborgs chased the inhabitants
into bunkers and mud-capped mountains. Their
body rusty-leaved and latched in the naked air.
While trying to escape, we lodged our feet to
the dog-nose wetness of an electrocuting pool.
Brothers shocked to stiffness. Bodies pimpling
under the harsh and tinder cold at the pre-op.
A woman trying to sneak substandard goods
through the border loses an ear to the lasers
shot by the cyborgs— our bodies, swarming with
imaginary pins and flying clouds. A meadow
unspreads somewhere by the sea; the heart of
the sun severed into bits of spindly light rays.
Little by little, even the masquerading ants begin
sneaking granules of foods through the border.
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