A Ballad for Millenials or something
only child
only guile
only glide your way to idle
lonely child
phony guile
pronely felt by way of idols
what type of place employs thee?
Foreign sounds
silent laptop
Scenes from a Ghanaian Funeral
Akwaaba: welcome, to the Brunies
Our khaki shorts and cameras pointed
Black and red… but we have none
Kete fever pitch fit for new kings anointed
The speakers bleat streams of Twi I don’t know
I catch the dancing boy’s glance every so often
The noise is dense like Foster Wallace
I scan the space but find no coffin
The large man comes to dance
A circle forms round and pulses, smiles
They rub his head with Cedi, drop
There’s spirit, passion, guile
A woman sat on my lap
Bells clang, relentless, and push
By Chris Trimis
photo by Chloë Zimberg
at the threshold 