By
Justice Gift Ogochukwu
DYSPHORIA
the streets have lost their voices
and can only whisper minor notes
to serenade dreams fallen on their chest
flames blossom in their mouths
reducing skins and names to ashes,
punctuating every sentence
in the condolatory speech of the wind
the streets have become purgatories,
where last prayers are crucified upside down
to be purged of fears and tears,
before they ascend through the clouds
to form a halo around the fullness of the moon
the streets are cold in places they shouldn’t
turbans the size of the sky cannot keep them warm
neither can any rod part the sea of tears
on their submerged faces
TALES OF A TENANT SUICIDAL
a pregnant woman rented a room in my dreams
she pays me daily with shadows,
harvested from her farm of silhouettes
yesternight, I saw her crawling on the lip of a dying stream,
trying to rinse out the city in her birth canal
the night before,
I saw the globe between her teeth,
she tried to juice it of its bitter memories,
to kill the sun on the street of her womb
once, she tried to jump off the cliff of my neck
but she is as light as a heart heavy with joy,
so she rode down on the ripples of the wind
tomorrow, she’ll try to kill herself again
by jumping into the fire in my chest
so I need to hold a river in my mouth
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