blossom blur close up dandelion
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
Many Congolese people attribute the symptoms of psychiatric 
disorders to spiritual problems or black magic. 
—Anna Inghram for BORGEN MAGAZINE

So I ask her after she flies back inside the 
room through the window, was the flower 
worth the use of your wings?  She says that 
she needed the wind to beat the sickle at a 
race. The pastor clinches his bible, and a 
bullet falls from his forehead. I hand him a 
piece of tissue. Asiya tells me that after the 
violence of the previous years—at night, a 
bleating goat might as well be a machine 
gun. I ask, do you think the war has 
something to do with your wings?
She asks me whether I knew what the 
texture inside of the universe is… a blue 
pulp with stretch marks of red and green 
that flash like lightning. Inside it is a vast 
meadow draped in dandelions.
the sun, the moon, and the stars are yellow 
flowers, white seeds, and dispersing seeds. 
I can also see it all if I closed my eyes hard 
enough. I don’t see it, I say. Her eyes are 
fixed on me and she says, yet another man 
who won't allow me to be anything other 
than a rose.
She blows in the wind, out the window. A 
dandelion. Free. 

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