The Arc-weld Rainbow

By Doreen Nzeyimana

When I wake up
in the sky
my head floats like an air ballon.
Alive with poisoned corn-husks turned under,
my spade digging down in sod
toward dawn somewhere else,
I wake into hazy heavens.

We die in the same way
so that hunters let us be comrades.
Dark clouds hover and the sky lingers.
Around us no blues, the moonless night sparkles.
We might feel abandonment rush at us like the tides
that left the world’s ground exposed, unsunken,
to join our ancestors’ underworld.
But in a nutshell we find our identity and purpose

The wheel of command steering our generation
into the bright open sky is the moon shining,
hiding the stars in its light all around.
Always take your memory back: lips spark in an arc-weld rainbow
rising against all odds with so much determination and persistence.
Into the whirring and buzzing machine sound
stand tall and irreplaceable like a battlefield
giving life to the unsung fallen soldier digging down in sod.

The ghost in us whispers around the corner
restoring hope like rain in the desert ground.
As your junkyard body freezes the rust
always remember flattery and dancing in the breeze.
Embark on the reborn, a fixed system like remote control,
that must be followed like the shadow following the body.
I am weary of considerations
when we’re all from the rainbow.

21 February, 2023