Lost Thoughts

By Gankhanani Moffat Moyo

You may push your finger
And push again
Down my throat
I surely will wish
For a chorus
Of groaning ghastly sounds
Then a quiet fire
I know,
This you desire
But come home,
I am in Africa
Where the forest
Feeds on fumes
And when you touch the bottom
And push you finger
Down my throat
And my eyes well up
I wish for another cup
Of ‘Seven Days’
To run down my throat

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