Tell me—is this how you surrender?
Your mouth saying alabaster,
Your nerves bored and gloomy—
For it was the silence that rinsed your mouth dry
Tell me it is not the words draping your lips
‘Cause you told me they’d be mute
Tell me it was for the knife in your throat
It pains slitting you till the truth fluxed
Tell me it was for the body and not what comes next
The hoodlum circumventing your flesh,
Raising dust as they rebirth beads of sweat.
Tell me it was for the bitterness of life and nothing else.
Ugonna Owoh writes from a sphere created by nature. His work has appeared and is forthcoming in Tuck Magazine, Agbowó, Rattle, Pride, and elsewhere. He was shortlisted for the 2018 Keats-Shelley Prize.