Like any fatherless ache, the origin of my displacement is untraceable: the finger working the puzzle of my life, going in circles. I am mostly irritable in my crisis. Room full of smoke, but I cannot find the fire. The wisps, blue, mellowing in every damn cell. I have to justify my anger. Every martyr should know the nexus of their torture. We should point at the heart of our agony & say, I have found where the rain began. All I see is the torrent, the sky's wet proof. It comes in waves, crashing inside my head, the arrows pouring from every cloud. First, the fire, now the flood. Ash water possessing me. Again, vexation. I seethe for the cowardice of disorder. How chaos is both present & obscure. You should not watch me as I rage, as I punish myself for the tumult of my spirit. If you must, sit far away. Let me cleave half moons in- to my wrist. Anything to illuminate the vein, brighten its dark pool till it fluxes, watering with light. Or come. Together, we would river the blood. Then, we would dismember my cursed limbs from their roots. I would bear my body bare before the blade—blood on my wrist from the heart on my sleeve. Now, you would take the knife. You must not be afraid. Often, pain is pain numbing another pain. What I have lost will be replaced, as ache cancels ache. I trust the knife & its swift descent. Whatever bone is cut will sprout anew.
About the Author:
Samuel A. Adeyemi is a Poetry Editor at Afro Literary Magazine. A Best of the Net Nominee and Pushcart Nominee, he is the winner of the Nigerian Students Poetry Prize 2021. His chapbook, To Erase the Wound, was selected by Kwame Dawes and Chris Abani for the New-Generation African Poets chapbook box set, 2022. His works have appeared—or are forthcoming—in Palette Poetry, Frontier Poetry, 580 Split, Strange Horizons, Agbowo, Brittle Paper, Jalada, and elsewhere.
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