Beneath a Withering Green, What flowers are truly used for, Sandcastles , poems, Bobbybryan Uzoma
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Beneath a Withering Green

i have seen death more times

than i have experienced life.

beneath a withering green

the world plays out in front

of me. yesterday, it was an infant. today: a young

man in his mid-thirties—a truck had collided

with his motorcycle. blood;

like red roses bloomed out of the man’s

scalp & fell at his feet. his body

parts: splayed for all to see.

this road must be human. this road must

have a belly for when it opens its

jaws a body gets served on the coal tar.

i have a pact with amnesia

but i know the taste of loss.

during the day: i am an old man

with a bowl & at night—a fossor. i build

comfortable homes for the dead

to live.


somber sounds rouses the air//

growing up never mattered

until this point where i sit

on shards of a broken

past & the only thing alive

inside of me is a ticking bomb.

I wish I/ if only I/ had I/ are nothing

but sad poems I read to myself when

the sky in my heart

breaks open. i would

ask mother if I could go out

to play & she would remind me

of how much grief I’m yet to peel

from my body; how my tongue has the

smile of a thorn. & so I don’t go out to play.

but I found a way to make friends who

won’t: judge me for what mother

says I am. friends who would: melt under my tears.

& yes I made such friends—for I drew them on

paper. my blood gave life to them.

I wish they stayed long though. I wish the

papers didn’t soak up as much

tears each time I bled in

my eyes. but I remind myself that everything

withers at the end—

that even this day would become grey-haired

& be as frail as night.

What flowers are truly used for

oftentimes we walk into the night

& wish it returns us unscathed at the first glimpse

of light. but others go into the night &

make peace with it;

they hug tightly the echoes shimmering

from the dark & kneel to the grief pulsing

beneath their skin. & I ask: is there a metaphor

for peace? & was shown: black earth, an epitaph

& gravestones. somewhere on the surface a bee

pollinates a flower—rose/lavender

but deep down

the root wars it out against loss: in form

of worms/drought/& disease. to experience the quiet

one must unearth flowers—hold them & lay still with

eyes shut forever.

About the author

Bobbybryan Uzoma is a Nigerian writer and he is the author of a poetry book titled: The Artist. His works have been featured or are forthcoming in Eboquills, African writers review, Afreecanread, Nantygreens, Avalanche initiatives and elsewhere. when he is not writing, he plays Scrabble and Chess. He writes from Lagos, Nigeria.

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Writer, editor and reader. A student of mathematics and physics, Twitter troll, Facebook comedian and human.

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