Nweke Benard Okechukwu
Stateless
the boundary between us & goners is the
imagination of their warm touch against winter.
the rebirth of grief of the circumstances surrounding
their departure from the memory of last seen,
like the compendium of miracles of snowflakes
anointing shrinking hibiscus.
i’m not telling you to wear another ash to trace the home of burnt men, drowned, or fired protestants,
but it’s love to shut the market at the
disappearance of the market masters.
at school, gunmen invaded girls’ hostels &
carted them away like packs of noodles.
& from the boys’ angle, the sky is lazy.
guilty of housing hawks prowling their
chicks. today, i account for every misfortune
before my feet. make it the banner headlines
to retain monumental damages. it’s proof that
the unborn can still trace the origin of floods &
drowning through rains in the absence of the rainmakers. they ask why most 1967 names
are prefixed by late. why is every home housing
photos of undernourished children in the
pigeonhole gallery? & to this end, every question carries an equal fiery answer to war lost to time.
& when they are told some men have set for a
journey, perhaps homeless. they ask:
what month returns a traveller to the family
yuletide? & this is me mumbling every
alphabet to fit into phrases to teach them
euphemism for exit is gone or stateless.
or fit into the shells of burnt eggs of eagles.
Deadheading in Late January
there’s science over everything, & ours is not left
in the story lines. infamous harmattan comes with
weight of waves & almond in front of the old
cemetery announces the season of dust—sheds
leaves. dusty palms blanketing flowers into a
colony of brown habitants. quaky hurricane
weaning leaves off parent sycamores, partying
them in the air to nowhere as if beauty lies in trees
stripped stark naked. of course, there’s no medal
in rendering one homeless, cries a little blue bird.
across Dynamore street, i watch a schoolgirl pulled
off her bathrobe, & it takes nothing to lampoon a
girl whose pride is probed in public.
science says: dehydration is directly proportional
to water, where water is Jesus. but i live in the
mouth of an ocean & my throat is rough like an
untrodden pathway. the more quantity quaffed,
the thirstier. & i interview climatologists; report
says it’s waiting for godot to expect rain in late
January. but it’s not about my chapped lips like
nylon exposed to charred coal. it’s the grey-dyed
Women owning only but broken water pots, whose
lips know no oil. & the boring deadheading dead
flowers in mama's garden.
Nweke Benard Okechukwu is a Nigerian poet from Ebonyi State, based in Onitsha, Anambra State. He's an award winner of the Neptune Prime 2022 poetry prize. He's also a cosmetician, and an undergraduate at Nnamdi Azikiwe University, Awka. His works have appeared and or are forthcoming in West Trade Review, Rogue Agent, Kalahari Review, Querencia Press LLC 2022 anthology, Threposs 2022 anthology, Mad Swirl, and elsewhere. He tweets @romeobenokechukwu.