Nike Onwu

Wake II

for Philip

Unable to sleep, I follow the peopling
of memory around your body, too quiet
to be sleeping. That Wednesday I was soft
against the world but the call came anyway.
The cold skeleton of the bed burning
into my thigh, there I unlearnt the catechism
of grief, what no lesson taught me:
of craters drained of light, shape-shifting wound
the size of our life. Before Wednesday
I worshiped the neglect of small devotions:
missed your call—on purpose—read your texts
—did not reply—sealed the door and loved
the darkness thinking it the worst that could be.
Isn't it law, the inevitable unraveling? The thickening
plume that gathers like smoke
over a badly fed fire. Dirt tongue, and milk skin
over the eyes. Traitor body that wants
what bodies want, what the living want,
what you cannot have. Life still aches at me
its simple needs. I wade through the morning’s womb,
chorus of crickets, solitary dirge of a nearby dog,
reluctant purpling of the sky. I call the imminent day
by its name trying, stupidly, to tame it.

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Nike Onwu writes from Lagos, Nigeria. Her work has been published in Agbowo, Isele and elsewhere.