& I zoomed a burning forest on my palm. a
rotten orange stained my silence after falling
twice from nights that didn’t plant me well in
as a green absence.
I couldn’t reply what burns my skin into
a shape, oval like what the world turns to
at night as it breaks like rotten egg in my hair.
for days I wondered if I wasn’t the dead fish
pulled from a river of bodies. Emeka is a
good friend to my darkness but he is hemmed
with a constellation of dark stories too.
how does iron sharpen an iron on a
battlefield grazed with rust?
at 12.56 pm. my sighs injured my room’s wall.
&I tried pulling some strength
from my aloneness &I ran my thumb on WhatsApp
gone too soon
in a red template pinned a memory of lilac
into my nose. someone so small in a childhood
of nightmares is dead again. someone who can’t
view his status anymore is pressing his body
between pebbles he played with yesterday at
their backyard. when death waters a body
with coffin nails, men around him build a
castle of his silence for him. men who never
gave him a penny while alive in his death. men
who’ll visit his Facebook timeline to sort the best
picture to inscribe with R.I.P.
in death there is
traffic. Facebook is happy for clicks &traffic while
a man drives his shadow under water & salt.
around 3 am, a boy choked with his own silences
trailing some befitting epitaphs writes on his WhatsApp status
I want to taste the feet of water
& hide between its toes where fishes sing
my body better than a world of fins & tears
& the next morning, near a shore stung with colours
we could only see how life is, in a torso of freedom
lying below flies & all hungry creatures.
I’m sorry, Nome, I’m so sorry life is the shape this poem takes.
Mesioye Johnson is a writer who loves the darkness of the world, hence, the gift of art he gives.