EWA GERALD ONYEBUCHI
But what is privilege
watch this, you said, clutching it to your chest, watch this:
a boy sits by the riverside/ and molds his heart into an origami
of shapeless things // his tears/ the wine that oils/
his mashed cravings/flowers that die at the break of dawn
/& what is worse/ to want the things you want so badly/like listening to
/to your lungs cry/ for air in a sealed jar/you can’t reach for the lid you can’t reach/because there
are eyes and eyes and eyes/ like floating ribbons /
like a fucking graffitied wall/watching /& mouths/minute/mute/mad
// wide /flirtatious/ daring/unbearable/thorns/ sapping/the
warmth/ off your body’s song/till the garden of your heart becomes/
a waste land/skyrocketing a soundless hum of grief/from your throat/
it was sunday/the day the lord died/i asked my
smiling mother /if she knew what the body sings in the dark/
what do you mean?/ she said/standing before a mirror/
adjusting the gele to sit on her head/please
don’t come and spoil my easter for me// i’m dying,
was what i said/ this is not my body/ i am a she/ not a he.
i know it/ many centuries ago/ in a past life/this soul has lived
before/but in a different home/her smile vapourised/
dread and scorn solidify on her face //next day she erected a cathedral
cathedral in my room/& planted a huge crucifix on the wall/ above my
bed/ to ward off the demon of homosexuality /see i wish i could play
a better video for you/ than the one in my head/ but the only thing
you’ll get in this city/ is a mob/& a flame/eating the bodies of boys
contorted in a geometries of love & grief & silence/ like penance/
belching them as smoke/ into God’s face/ memorial./it isn’t you that i mourn/
it is time/of those things we would have become/
the birds in my chest sing/ the elegy of shruken hearts/the clash of
hands/drumming a burning river /forgive me if i bore you to
death with my crazy ramblings/there’s a dog barking
softly at the grave of my head/ i don’t know what it says/but i know
what it sees: /the faces/of boys powdered with darkeness/
their lips trying to repair the broken harp in their eyes/
these aren’t some fucking lines you pick from/ jazzy’s rap song
and scream the roof down/ oh fucking christ/christ isn’t the one
burning here/it’s me/it’s the choir of voices in my head/singing an opera of
longing/when i sleep/what i am saying is/i wear my sequine gown
and sashay into a room full of flowers/ in a room/ i swear/
i wish i could cook this poem into something/ something you
can swallow/ without feeling the ache/in your throat/ to shove this
picture/ of my becoming/ the things/my mother dreads/ in the world’s
face/to become a bird / & sway with reckless abandon/ daring
daring the wind to lift a hand / i fucking hate this regimen of plucking eggs
from the sky/ in my dream/ and never see them hatch into wings /
have you seen the drowning ship in my eyes?/ a girl says, inching
towards me in a bar/ a poem is just privilege/ she adds,
sipping her drink/just privilege/it is the only way you conceal
the pain in pages mildewed by the sun/ in bodies of lovers you can
only caress in a land of shadows /but what is privilege/
when it only sings behind a mask? i ask/ watch this, she says/watch this/
Ewa Gerald Onyebuchi is a Nigerian writer of Igbo descent. An alumnus of Osiri University 2021 Creative Writing Masterclass taught my professor Chigozie Obioma, he was a finalist for the Spring 2021, Starlight Award for poetry. His short story, wearing my skin, was shortlisted for the 2020 Ibua journal bold continental call. His works have been published in rulerless magazine, better than starbucks fiction and poetry magazine, afritondo, brittlepaper, art lounge mag, african writer, nantygreens, Ibua journal, synchronized chaos, spring ng, the pine cone review and elsewhere.