(cover photograph direction: Victor Akhere)
The Wall
When we saw skyscrapers gleaming
in the distance, we dug our heels harder
into the ground; cheered our bodies
to conquer the last mile. Whole countries
were strapped to our backs; dreams rattling
inside our chests like tambourines.
We were lucky—the Atlantic spat us
onto the shore before we became citizens
of the seabed. And there we were, in the
presence of a new wind. Inhaling the scent
of possibilities; of what we believed will be,
until we got to the border. What we saw
earlier was a wall still growing, each brick
chanting alien alien alien. Behind us, home
was a chimney puking smoke, crumbling walls
singing: don’t come back don’t come back
don’t come back. We learned that humans,
like waste, can be discarded.
Scale the wall and meet horse whips halfway
to the top. Surrender children to cages on
the other side. Float on this haunted hallway
until you begin to make meals of each other.
The Body as a Walking Riot
The monstera stretched across the kitchen
counter, colonised spaces past its borders
until I stuck a stick by its stem and tamed
its flailing limbs with a rope. My own life has
been scattering in different directions, mind
working double shifts to ignore the therapist’s
rumblings about tending to familial wounds,
breaking generational burdens and living in
the moment. I still have sticks and ropes,
should any of my houseplants consider
wandering. At night, I dream of the same
hack, but this time I try to prune
the riot I carry inside.
The world, freshly widowed sings
Walk briskly away,
grief. I’ve released my stomach
from the grip of a black cloth.
