There are no mistakes here
A poem from Nakesoro Market, Kampala.
A chorus of black birds trace bewildering paths between buildings. Below car horns warn, cajole the market day crowd swarming the road, footsore and thirsty bees at the throat of a closed honey pot. The birds erase effort and the woman swaying in the shadows of the street arms crooked, feet apart, bounces her hips as the sun falls. Watermelons so…
