The Bruises I Carry

My life is full of experiences
wrenching some prizes from fate.
I have learned more in rooms where people
leave open their wounds than in any classroom.
My dreams are a brooding visage and my losses
swirl in the chest of my expectations.
Sometimes I wonder if penury is a more
destructive force to the artiste than the critic.
In my room, I question if I am Igbo enough.
I want to be good, and every morning when I wake up from
my bed, I first tend the garden where my suffering
went silent in history. Last night, I looked at myself in my
bathroom mirror, pleading my mind to commune with flight,
begging my conscience to the commune of deductibles.
I know by name the things that have betrayed me.
A story goes that looking at a blackbird sitting on a windowpane
begets bad tidings. So, I pretend I am a robin smalling and un-
smalling in things; I perch on my balcony looking
at the expanse of my neighbourhood.
I dissolve in my worries.
The wrong men in my childhood picture book bare their teeth at me.
What happens when I can’t even bloom in my garden.
I listen to the terror of tomorrow.
I listen to the bruises I carry.
It feels so heavy how everything hunts me.

What are you looking for?