Watch this poem become fire become air.
This house smells of suffocation
And here the world goes to sleep in a poem.
Ask me why on May 1,
I am thinking of visiting a salon
And on July 1,
I am cutting my hair with a razor.
The difference between cremation and immolation is
A body in motion and a body at rest.
Every time I listen outside my window,
I think of the word reprieve.
I think of loss. Ennui. Formaldehyde.
I think of many words
That mean a war between skin and soul.
Mother says I must learn to adapt,
To shapeshift.
One only adapts to a thing that resembles home,
And adapting is really a fancy word
For losing parts of one’s self
To a thing they may never understand.
Haemolysis of the body.
Like a cell,
A body ruptures if placed in harsh conditions–
Say solitude and anxiety.
My anxiety is a noun in transit,
A word capable of holding a presence.
Every breath I take is the death of a poem
Or a girl walking into a wall
Or the birth of silence.
But what is silence other than the synonym for
An empty house that refuses to echo?
The news says there is a migration of souls.
I lock myself in a dark room
And pretend that the war outside
Surpasses the war within
Where I am both prey and predator.
I do not know how to write poems
That do not sound like
Houses falling apart in a body.
*This poem is the winner of Bloomsday Poetry Competition Sponsored by the Embassy of Ireland, Nigeria. More details here.
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Photo by Ian Kiragu via Unsplash
Jess Vaughn Writes September 15, 2022 16:21
"Watch this poem become fire become air....I do not know how to write poems That do not sound like Houses falling apart in a body." I felt all of that. I felt her spirit and soul burning like fire from just the agony of existence when the war of anxiety, anger and internal demons was more frightening than the literal conditions going on around her. The absolute dejectedness of spirit saying 'I do not know how to write poems that do not sound like houses falling apart in a body' breaks my heart in totality. Recognizing the hollow sadness in oneself, recognizing their was no joy of heart to release in poetic verse, that there would only come destruction, bitterness, pain, suffering each time pen went to paper. I am broken over this poem. It has both shattered and inspired because I desire my writing to have such impact. She has challenged me to go deeper, more raw, yet not in my usual prolific expression but in very tight, concise wording. I am moved to do it!