With palm-oiled hands,
I scribble this in the mud of anguish;
my mouth, a dale to the water-fall
of my colored tears.
When I crossed the Niger Rubicon,
my face was in painful intercourse with the earth
and my body trickled water and blood,
as I watched a people, houses…
by an overwhelming flow!
I leaned on an oil-bean tree, like the son prodigal,
trying to re-gather whispers of dolor;
Whispers which I thought a child’s play-sand,
but now a potter’s clay
that was molded into a carafe of horror!
meet the poet: Ezebuike Temple
I am a member of the WRR editorial team.