&I fixed my eyes between a horizon
forming a right angle with a certain absence.
a fire becoming a black boy. a city
receding into a sour anthem. somewhere
too tired of my silence—my exit diary folding
into odes. my body goes to farm with
a sack of wreckage & memories & ends up
as a vacant mortuary. I love eggs. my wounds
are as white as an albumen. no wonder
the night sees so well to wear a sonnet about salt on
my scars. every morning I feel the
undressing of my body from honey the
same way an albumen undresses shells in pleats.
wounds have no setting. no plot. no characters.
no director. everything just takes the shape of
nothing & your body replays & replays till
your silence becomes the only onlooker. of what
dies as inconclusive as your body. of what…I
just hope these kids understand. I
Mesioye Johnson is a writer who loves the darkness of the world, hence, the gift of art he gives.