By Marvellous Igwe

It healed.

Flesh returned to flesh.

There was no poem.

The rain fell.

The umbrella that sliced me

open still laid there.

It gleamed,

almost metallic,

full of intent.

Your blood,

at any given chance,

might leap out,

a hungry animal.

An artist eager to

show you their art.

What was constant

was the sting.

What was constant.

The little anguish.

The way everything turned

alive and hurting.

Alive and hunting.

The water from the tap.

The soap in the sink.

Sponge. Towel.

Look how the bright wound

filled up the body.

The other day,

a door clamped itself

on my father’s finger

and he screamed.

He screamed.

The pain,

it filled his body

like a skeleton.

He was warm

to the touch afterwards*.

Bright as a bulb.

So now you understand

where all this glow

is coming from.

So now you understand

that that morning,

when I woke

and the room was dark.

When the path of light

was sealed with flesh,

sealed with skin,

I had tried to make

a little opening.

Do not blame me.

I wanted light.

I wanted to see.

*Italicized phrase attributed to Ocean Vuong’s Threshold

*Asterisked line attributed to Ameen Animashaun’s Ordinary Eyes