Even
if our knifed hearts melt volcanoes
and
our skins shrink like snails close to the fireplace;
even
though the edited stories between our thighs sink ships
and
like foliage paper we sway this way and that way,
the
whirl wind tossing us about in episodes,
we
will only probably be remembered
chapter
after chapter, leaf by leaf,
by
only half a handful of those who sniff our agonies
and
get high in the pleasures
buried
in their shallow graves;
even
though we sound our trumpets of war
and
with borrowed hands beat our battle drums torn,
like
a salamander, dumb to the torrents of rushing waters
the
noisy world would be icy silent as always;
silent
to our cries for justice...
Visit
any nearby police station,
you’ll
marvel at the histories written on our breasts.
The
rehab centers can hold only a few letters of us.
Soon
they’ll cough out a handful back into the streets
where
we came from- as books with blank pages
full
of super stories only imagined.
Our
orgies like oceans will flow on and on and on,
unending,
our stories will only make newspaper headlines
but
a climax would never be reached.
We
will only hear ourselves ourselves.
Ehizogie Iyeomoan (c) 2015
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