A Poem In Which I’m A Matador, by Ben Okechukwu haven’t you heard them on air who offer sarcophagus on boxing day? can’t you see them photographed on tv who empty our communal rivers? watch them caravanning like night bats, flying on borrowed wings. hearts at home. tongues at the marketplaces. eyes on London promenade legs scatter across native corners. a seed must be jointly watered into shades but what amount of waters grow thistles into sunflowers? how long shall the mayors of hunger feed fleshy of our grains? yesterday, mother closeted me: look, there’s no warmth anywhere...