Certain truths, you hold them against the light, and they change colour.
— Clifton Gachagua
And if we are being honest,
I am tired
of blaming a pandemic
for these wings
that burden my feet with restlessness.
Maybe I am lost,
but know enough to tell that a sunken soul,
pulls everything it touches
into the darkness.
I do not know how to be grateful
because the memory of us
is a wormhole.
Time, like dust & rust, settles
on door handles & window frames.
I am curious
how much of it is enough to pull absolution
from festering wounds.
When you lie long enough
the tongue develops a phobia for the truth.
every word I bent
because I knew its a breaking point
pulled me farther from you.
A Golden Shovel for My Alter Ego
She gathers her chicks into a ball of warmth
before the long night stretches &
opines— no one is an island,
but on sober days
her mantra is a variant of these words;
“Friends always failed your father, my dear.”
The contradiction leaves a taste
on my tongue when I ruminate,
wrestling thought until I choose the latter, god
knows that any word
said before the but— is bullshit.
Clicks away from the nestling of mother’s feathers, I make
like a prodigal in distress,
choosing flight to
blink everyone else into a ghostly apparition.
negotiating necessities of abandonment.
a certain form of self-care, I convince me
that my only inheritance is a fleet foot.
Every lover I have cradled wears on their neck, a
grudge, in the colour of the skin
I offered them.
the chameleon, a spectrum of self-defence
crawls between a rock at the same moment a bird
soars in the direction of the wind.
The Pillars of Composition
Our eyes closed minds tossed by winds
spirit us back to Nana tales by the earthen pot
sitting astride three blackened stones the custodian of crackling
embers stoked by her crooked hands.
In our contractile apertures danced the reflection of a spider
poised to spin the web of a time when tales stood tall as the ones
who bore them she began each rendition
with these same words—
when the rains came we offered a body to it
when the forest summoned we offered two
but when the plagues came even our bodies were not enough
This is the song of how we became.