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Jabbeh Wesley: Monrovia, Revisited
This is the city that killed my mother; its crooked legs bent
from standing too long, waiting so angry people can kill
themselves too.
No grass along street corners- so many potholes from years of war.
Immigrants from all over the globe used to come here
on tender feet,
in search of themselves. Abandoned city-
a place that learned how to cry out loud even though
nobody heard.
This is the city where I first learned how to lose myself.
Windy city, blue ocean city. They say a city on the hill
cannot be hid.
The city of salty winds, salty tears, where stubborn people still hold
us hostage after Charles Taylor. You should come here if you want
to know how sacred pain can be.
