25 Notes on Becoming
I
I write to tell you that
the walls of my bones
are made of contention and …
A Concerto for Four Nerves
“Love is blind”
But because we had to
see through Cupid’s blindfold
and avoid slumping…
Reasons Why We Write
Because forgetting
is unforgivable,
irredeemable even
and we must not go too far…
To Love is to Die
To love is to die every night
hoping to wake up in a dream
where love is a language,
ecstasy; a song…
A Game of Numbers
Say an arbitrary night
(could be moonless or not
depending on the mood of the universe
and if she is interested in this play set…
Dehiscence and other Poems
You love your men broken,
cracked in open places
seeking repair.
Introspection and a Song of Colours
Repeat after me:
history is not a prison,
a name is not a curse,
destiny is not a picture of the past…
A Tuesday Poem
My lover said her blouse
is tight around her chest,
that the air around is too heavy
for her to breathe.
Healing is a Woman
Healing is a woman
or a rainbow
or a dream
(where fear comes to die-
Upon Conversing with Adonai on Mount Sathurai
Do you know me?
I once tried to learn all your names by heart
but they did not stay I thought you said
if you knocked and I opened that you’d stay
Grief is a Thing with Feathers
That flew on a warm Nigerian evening, north across the frigid Atlantic and nested in Lithuania in your warm bubbly heart and made it cold like old memories buried inside the earth, awaiting resurrection…