I learned that Ghanaians often feature "NO SEX" as part of their do-nots in toilets;
I am weirdly proud that I have never once broken this rule on any continent
(well, in shopping malls, at least, come to think of it).
And so I examine my own body, thirty years and counting, left

always to its own devices.
Left to its own delicate quietness,
I have found that it is hard to take away its serenity
just through willpower. (Someone needs to tell this to the exallos,
who keep thinking that killing someone and "taking their energies" will somehow grant them the power to will the future they want into existence; excuse me. This is the 21st century.
I can SEE all your silly little projections.)

I can see histories, and legacies, written across what you might call my insistence
to show off my dignities;

I call it confidence,
a sense that others will judge this poem
for not having appeared in an anthology;
others are already judging this poet
for not owning a suit. For striking out on his own. For infidelity

to the norms of image, and reputation, and hierarchy.
I am fortunate that my parents always ensured I rejected all such stupidity

in favour of brighter colours. A bit of gaudy
love around my sides, and a chest brimming with enough loving spacetime

to write poems about executions and elections instead
without losing my fucking head, or yours. To depend on mine

and mine alone.
Your Dreamtiger can always find just enough joy
to say,

it chills me to the bone

that the world is so sad
and broken.

So alone

when I inevitably step outside.

So in here—
in here, it is not necessarily that I am alive,
but the only fear I have to contend with, necessarily,
is the one looking back at me with a beautiful brown boy's eyes.

I eventually buy the shirt
for 300 cedis,
and remember that
it is the quietest changing rooms
where one can really,
truly try on
whatever is on sale
inside.