The Worry in My Voice
       

I am calling on this throb, this worry, gathering in my voice
to crawl out and settle down at the family's dining table:
bear flowers for my brother who lost his arm at school last year;
bear flowers for my people— shields against bullets
and bombs shaking roofs and playgrounds here.
I often lie under the sky so my memories will rhyme with the
stars watching me year after year survive the advent birds.
I stretch my hand and tow a string from the past:
exercise for the ugly words orbiting a city's billboard.
And behind this billboard, a woman's voice sinks with fists:
her lips roll back into her mouth and her child reclines
in a corner and itches with a hard push as her teddy
drops on the ground, vomiting threads and wools.
And behind this billboard, a man drowns in the swirls of wines:
a dream living in his heart bends into a bow.
And behind this billboard, I am at the border of its city:
everywhere is empty of people walking, talking, marketing;
everywhere is full of still bodies
— residues from an exploded overused tanker.
The worry gathering in my voice turns into an arm of God
and the sky looks down at me and sighs at my poor soul
carrying a weight heavier than unanswered prayers.

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Copyright © 2021 Chinua Ezenwa-Ohaeto All rights reserved
from The Bitter Oleander
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission