Poetry, Flash Fiction, Songs

A Postcard from Konanga

A Postcard from Konanga

Having a wonderful time; wish you were here; took a tour yesterday, saw cyclops children peering thru windows of doorless houses; the natives worship the moon, it controls the flow of their urges and their blood; women carry baskets of fog all morning; there are twenty-one verbs
for different ways to spit; one must bow before three-legged dogs to show respect; packs of wolves make the forests dark with their black sweat; shadows are lined up against a wall at noon and shot; faces are painted blue to ward off a moth’s evil eyes and on odd-numbered days handfuls of hummingbirds are released with dreams strapped to their beaks. but no one here slits the throats of rivers and a homeless day can beg for alms without a license; tomorrow we leave on a cruise to pull up salt by its roots and to the place where storks are shaped like letters of the alphabet.

Copyright Dan Campbell

 

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