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Fanon’s Banania 1953

Myronn Hardy

To realize you are not.
That fall from a self
they claimed was yours.

You were of it until you saw
posters on city walls.
Your reflection distorted

but to them it was you.  
The red cap     the same red as lips.
The confection     the same brown as skin.

As a student     Senghor wanted
to rip away each poster.  
His fingers would bleed.

So what?
Me on stone.
Stolen me on stone

You turned away
from those shellacked walls.  
The red handkerchief

in your hands was something
alive     something
you carried to Algeria.

Minds exploding in a building
where you were made healer.
Years of healing     heal me

as posters peel from stone.