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i wonder
if he misses his aunts cooking,
or the way his sister slept, one arm
thrown over his back.
or the way his father touched their heads
one after another
before he left in the morning.
i wonder if he misses
the way the sun sizzled
before it sunk, blazing,
a nigerian sunset.
i wonder
when he calls my aunt mama,
if he curls up at night,
young, so young,
and wishes for home
like an ache.
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