passing through

I heard bullets leave particles as they pass through fabric. They tend to cling for decades or more. The night you left, you shot through fabric on the clothesline with a force that left me breathless. I had been waiting for months for you to come back for me. It rained and parched and bellowed in all that time.

Bracing for impact. Your words rolled off the edge nonstop until you were empty and I was full. Full of questions I didn’t dare ask. Full of questions I know I should have asked. I remember silence digging its heels into my spine when everything was being taken from me. I remember because I was on the floor in the dark and I was shaking from all the breaking.

That didn’t stop your leaving. When has it ever? When has an already bleeding body stopped a bullet from cutting through new flesh? When has it stopped a shoot to kill? The particles revolved around my dizzy bones, seeped into my blood, compounded my love and pinned me further to the ground.

I was never meant to be your home. Twelve months of manipulating a tourniquet and changing bandages and I finally understand that I was somewhat of a lingering, a place to lodge, and you were merely passing through.

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old home

it is the back
of my grandmother’s hands,
her veins,
the way they lean into
her skin, as if they cannot
remember what it means to
stand-alone.

it is the wooden
bench, mastering its balance
with a broken ankle,
weighed down by
the gossip and buttocks of
market women.

it is my grandmother
serving afang so thick
it could have only been
made with extra
love and a little water.

it is the mosquitoes
commencing choir
practice just before
we start to eat.

it is the burn
on our finger tips as
We dig into the fufu

it is the fireflies taking
photographs. It is

my father’s childhood home.

If i marry a writer

“I never thought about how magnificent it would be to date and maybe eventually marry someone who writes, until now. It is so strange that in all my years of answering the question “what kind of guy would you like to date?”, I never imagined him being a writer. I never imagined the love of my life being as in love with poetry and art like i am. I feel like i just had an epiphany.

I would very much love to date/marry a man who is in touch with his creative side when it comes to art. A man who appreciates literature and listens to spoken word . A man who spends his evenings beside the fire or out by the waters, nose buried in a book. A man who will join me in my mission to build a beautiful glorious library in our home. A man who keeps a journal and write tirelessly about anything; our life, our future, our kitchen, our now.

I imagine, he would complete some of my poems and i would practice performing them with him. He will find poetry in the lines on my palm, prose in the curve of my hips and mystery in the small of my back. Our love will blossom with every book we consume, every author we fall in love with, every art we create.

We will take care of each others hands, mind and heart because they are our instruments. We will create sons and daughters who will be literary giants with gentle artistic hearts. We will teach them to love and love and love and then create. Because writers are lovers first before creators. We will open their eyes to the multi-faceted beauty of this world. We will teach them to dream in colour.

If i marry a writer, It will be a gift. Our lives will be the most beautiful poem laden with joy, pain, forgiveness, laughter and most of all Love. We will love each other until we are completed works of art. A little tweak here,a little tweak there; and we shall proceed to walk this earth, hand in hand, in all our artful splendour.”