Into Death, There Are No Escorts
the night is balmy; moonless,
walking in a shirt full of patterned flowers,
body registers torn memories as asylum seekers,
it is no longer easy to call a foreign object yours,
atlas of unidentified countries
ruler of emotions that do not recognize the breath in my mouth.
unidentifiable boy with chaos tattooed on his skin attempts to smile,
i am afraid of laughter,
pain comes naturally.
i colour myself with the headlights of a car,
for once i want to walk into something bright.
i divest from clothing,
discontinuing the voice breaking me,
without the scars i have worn yearly,
forgetting pain in those flowers on my shirt,
that car bearing death in those lights gets rammed through by a speeding body
& i go home with no memory of loss.
between engine groans & a mirror into the body of a ghost,
time runs away upon sighting you. no room for full leg space
so you jump into a day dream. who stays awake in a bus trip?
soda purchased by a child wearing desolation cannot hide
personalized nightmares. speed bumps speak through
you in cusses. it is unlike potholes, impromptu meetings
worn tyres must attend. mental wars rage on. you are the fire
water fears knowing. love does not come from the lady in front.
or her searching looks. you must be forgiven for polarizing.
everyone is not a story to be read. you sink further in worn
leathery seat. a soda can opens from behind — quick hissing
sound exhales. your can hangs suspended from numb hands.
jealously dropping; it misses sucking. it should share the name of
a promise to attend church or a habit on self love. you have no
responsibility to life. you are hate. on days where buses are mini
conversations with self, you feel Christ does not understand sacrifice.
a wooden cross shrivels when it bears witness to body shedding pain
for newness to walk you home. happiness sprouts with the memory of
shame left behind.
About the Author
Michael Akuchie’s poems have been featured on Vagabond City Lit Mag, African Magazine Online, Praxis Magazine Online & Dwarts Magazine. He writes from Benin, Nigeria, where he is an undergraduate of University of Benin.
One thought on “Two Poems By Ifeanyi Michael”
there’s something about the poet’s style and diction that left me gasping.