THE SPOTS ON MY FRONT DOOR
Walking towards home is a backward glance toward reality.
I remember once my brother said the only way to become whole was to breathe through my eyes and see through my nose
I breathed smoke and my ears became a trumpet.
There are seven fours in a night’s wheel and when it spins your head becomes a rainbow of rollercoasters
I walk forward towards a home that stands behind me
And when I close my eyes I hear a different breath trying to outshine the other
Water sits calmly on the surface of my head and refuses to turn over
And my pen is fighting the words in my head
Will I be picture-perfect when I take a seat by the sun
Or will I become an eclipse when I walk past the moon.
A BOY IS A HALF-FORMED THING
My body is a steel of fire and my body is a room you don’t find in a home.
My mouth eats pieces and I digest myself in seamless monotony of thoughts,
Tomorrow brings a day running from today; this night my body is an envelope of closings and openings…
Do I stutter when the moon smiles, the star questions
I’m a dialogue running towards a monologue
Do I get raised when I’m erased?
My pen bottles my emotions as I ink my way into a story…
There is no one way into a story
Silent beginnings are salient, they etch their way in
The way up is down and to embrace life is to be happy with death
I carve my skin into a beautiful structure to house all the feelings I’m beginning to bear
And most times what you chest-in sits on top your chest
I’m learning to become a moving tree, my roots do not run underground
A thousand claps are the way into a story and when you pen your character he looks back at you
You hum your way into a water you cannot find your breath in
If you stretch your arms and legs enough you’ll become an epitome of paintings.
Poetry: Okolo Chinua
Image by Karen Smits/ duanjiajin from Pixabay (modified)