The Third Mirror
& kedu? a dim mma is becoming a buried artifact
& you’re using a language that is not yours at a corner of a room
& you’re fixed and soaked in it: the rules or nothing more
& on the last day, with an uncooked way-back you said: let there be light
& and there were f(r)ictions and nonf(r)ictions and p(r)oems:
& a hat is stitched by an old man on a balcony
& a man back home speaks to you in falsetto from the graveyard
& a girl living next door unfurls her lips at you into butterfly’s wings
& your marrow has learnt how to contain the darkness in your body
& your mother prays halo over your head before you could wear her age
& the child you take care of has unraveled the amniotic push
in the knitting needles of an old woman forgotten in a retirement home.
& you remember your friend― innocent Uche, full of seals
until at school he was pulled away from his host by stray bullets
& a flag spreads before you
and holds you by the feet: footprints gathered at a port.
(“kedu? a dim mma” is the question and response for “how’re you? I’m fine” in Igbo Language)