baptizing the earth. A bleeding of black liquids from

erect pipes defying the womb of a verdant habitat.

But you can understand, now, why the river drowns

in the abyss of slicks & innumerable gods ripple

beneath its surface. Only for oaths to be swallowed in

oil. It is called development. Well, only if the fishes are

not made to wear their death like scales, nor have their

bellies bloated with benzopyrene, nor have their eyes

reflect the tragedy that licks the river’s skin. All is still

progress, anyway. I’ve been forced to accept that progress

is what lines up & bursts itself all over the roots of palm

trees, makes the trees, once dripping of green gold, to

stand like mourners, their smoked barks wounded with

saw-toothed irons, their bodies embalmed with black

anointing as they bid farewell to the memory of clean

earth. All is still progress. The cassavas, the yams, the

potatoes, stripped of vitality, yielding no strength. No

breath for children whose bellies now swallow hunger.

All is still progress since the earth spits out a sick percentage

of hope. The market rumbles with the murmur of lean crops.

All is still progress since the farmers still harvest smoke as

protein to make their families & nation happy, to watch

progress drip from the mouths of pipelines. I ask if national

sacrifice, too, will be part of the progress in Delta, if the hands

that spill the libation will not leave the table, if oil-stained

fingers will stop pointing to the future they’ve long kept in

pollutant-bearing pockets.