forgive me if I said I won't talk about grief again, I lied. each time I open my mouth to speak, my words grow wings leading me to the sea where a woman carries her son in a bag of tears. there are many doors in this poem, voices singing from the grave—it's the way spirits welcome their dead. last night I kissed a dying bird holding out his hand, I led him through a door in my eyes, i took his heart and swallowed it. the night folded into a dream; an easy way to conceal grief. i haven't stopped kissing the tears from your letters. as I chew the words, they become broken memories devouring spaces in the pit of my gut. this is the way we hide ourselves in envelopes of silence. i have been on this road for a long time; my memories have grown beards. i'm scared of dying alone in a house full of pictures. the night is here & I'm getting ready to walk into my past to save a boy standing before a grave that won't answer his questions. In the Rain
we are butterflies weaving through a bed of lush greens, their stalks so soft and wet we lick the dew of their joy. the rain kisses the darkness from our eyes while we stitch a flower into every hole in our bodies, holes left by mother nature's tears. cities are wounded in the blight of war but there's nothing more horrifying than to be remembered as the name whose cadaver was rejected by vultures. the wind, God's delivery man, whispers of a home beyond the sky. we listen with hungry ears and swallow his words & bury them in the cave of our hearts where other treasures lie safe from the sun's eyes. in the rain we teach our lips to sing the songs of freedom and our wings flutter with excitement.
Ewa Gerald Onyebuchi is an Igbo writer of short stories and poems. An alumnus of professor Chigozie Obioma’s creative writing masterclass, he has been published in Afritondo, african writer, brittlepaper, arts lounge magazine, and elsewhere.