Two stories ago,

I had asked 

“What use is my story 

if it cannot leave behind a legacy? 

If it cannot save me, an invention of a breakout semen 

from becoming a weak carrion of nihility?” 



Today, standing 

over an inselberg, 

Feet about to be set  unconstrained – morning breeze caressing conscious the soft vellus hair that grow from the follicles  of my cocoa brown skin. 



Something restrains me 

Like I am tied up with a rope 

just so I wouldn’t jump. 

Something clings my arms 

and pulls me back. 

Something gives 

me wings. 

A story 

A story 

A story.