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          After Paul Celan

At what point did the grace wear off from your skin?
The moment I let the blackbird take to air, the air took me

How wreckful was your fall from the golden horizon?
The agony of a defletched arrow fluctuating through an endless vestibule of time

Did the sun smite you by day and the moon love you by night?
I rode all the way here with hungers sheathed to my sides like weapons

What did you become after all these years of running from the beast?
A shadow wandering at the boundary of light, alive in the deadest way

When the maroon mouse in your ribcage tires of treading the wheels, what next?
Picture a forest razed down to its knees, & a rabbit skipping out of absolute ruin

Omodero David Oghenekaro is a young writer from Delta State, Nigeria. A recipient of the Inaugural Black Boy Review Book Grant 2021, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Strange Horizons, Lolwe, Trampset, Poetry Sango-Ota, The Lumiere Review and elsewhere. He's a member of the Frontiers Collective and currently reads for Frontier Poetry.
Current Issue
26 Feb 2024

I can’t say any of this to the man next to me because he is wearing a tie
Language blasts through the malicious intentions and blows them to ash. Language rises triumphant over fangs and claws. Language, in other words, is presented as something more than a medium for communication. Language, regardless of how it is purposed, must be recognized as a weapon.
verb 4 [C] to constantly be at war, spill your blood and drink. to faint and revive yourself. to brag of your scars.
Wednesday: The Body Problem by Margaret Wack 
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