So you confess—you gave into despair and didn’t sleep for days when
‘In her deepest sleep, Madam Lisette Talate returns to Chagos’

was launched online in New York’s Schomburg center—where artists,
and activists pass on the baton—where Amira Baraka’s hand asked

Maya Angelou’s hand for a dance—cheek to cheek! When Harry
Bellafonte met Ella Fitzgerald for a timeless duet. You’re hiding

at your parent’s house in New Barnet. The iconic amulet Toni Morrison
flashes on screen. Your carefree world interrupted by a fear of self-

promotion: Twitter—Instagram—Facebook! “The nervous system out
of sync—sounds like rootshock—this shifting mindscape was once sacred—”

where you whispered: am I an imposter or an african poet? Who has the right
to name a people and their ancestral homelands? The British Monarchy?

The taxpayer? The US citizen? The Mauritian government? The queen is dead,
the queen is dead, your dear queen is dead, she is no longer the sovereign

head, the 5 pound head—the British Indian Ocean Territory postage head
has been denounced by the International Nations Postal Service—legitimizing

Mauritius’ claim to the Chagos Archipelago. What harm is there in the prayers
of the Chagossians of Crawley—the Chagossians of Manchester—of London,

the prayers of the Chagossians of the Seychelles, the Chagossians of Mauritius?
Mon dieu—no poet, no person of birthright shall be exiled from their islands.



From Magma 87, Islands



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