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.