lamentations with the list of the abiku stillborn’s demands

By | 1 November 2019

after Kechi Nomu’s body parts

the tears continue to pour like wet season.
when the woman came, her womb in her
hand, the wound poured more, squeezed
tight by the mob. your father was reborn
seven times before staying, his back full
of knives saying please stay, please stay
his mother telling us how the slavers did
the same thing to the father of her father
scourging them as they bruised the map
out of their arched backs with a pearl of
bones in the middle, ’til the body forgot
where it came from. which makes me a
spiritchild tonight, begotten of Mimesis
which is the oldest stimulus. the serpent
knew this but never warned her that she
would feel dizzy with God; their garden
spinning. it stretches that language with
a wide contagious yawn: as her hunger
opened along. the last thing i have ever
wanted is rescue or catharsis or a happy
ending. why waste such sorrow in one
act? the slaves distrust seas that sprout
towers of light from the shark’s belly:
the phantom limb of a hand reaching to
to a drowning voice. which makes me a
seachild drowned in tears and my role is
to hoax a friend’s death to a mother I’ve
never known in a cue of memory; but by
my dream her eyes were cut out of cold
stone. to survive here is to stage our own
own death, to die every day, embalming
yourself; through a world that has caught
flu that wiped half of the bees and snakes
but all i could think for succor was an
artichoke rolled in a cucumber-skinned
hotdog rough like a snake half-formed in
God’s palm, yet un-cursed, yet unbruised.
the garden was still tunnel-shaped, His
slender fingers of sunlight for trellis. but,
God, i’d rather my body a garden and not
a temple. a temple means felled trees.
there’s a snake in this poem but all i have
is a language forked into a hiss. there’s
a woman not moved by the lie. dressed in
a wolf costume, i growl into a lamb sad at
its owner’s passing. the desert leafed into
a rainforest filled with wolves. somehow
my grandmother plays Electra; prefers
the son of man to cleave and not the man.
Electra spreads her loss on a mat, silently
as she cuts his back, scratching a new city

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