Picture gotten from- Pinterest
Have you consoled your embroidery?
your interwoven sleeves carved from healing smites?
Mother of souls.
Mother of colds with cursed sores.
You remind me of moon tales,
skipping bad omens for good fortune.
Save these little fingers for one itch.
Bring men that think like goldsmiths,
black and beaten, chosen by water.
We can twist the tongue in spirals,
our food still wouldn’t know it’s born yet.
Let me tell you about noise-
Early mornings are for early mournings.
I’ve heard women say this
“visit me in places that make me scream”
another way to lure gardens to a shore.
…breathing heavily in silence.
a taste of my own sin,
a dying flesh with wages sold as the moon rises.
an in-betweener of stolen air,
in rivalry with my own mouth.
Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2017.