Cascading ornaments of decay
the fat horror sits like a map of sores plastered on the skin.
oh sea, monarch of the earth's underbelly
custodian of waves and tides—from your veins sprang
the milk that made mother nature's breasts thump with possibilities.
now, you are just a warehouse of anguish. haunting
memorial of a splitting blue stretching beyond time lines.
you lay drunk with the marrow of drooling memories—
the very life you swore to protect sloughed out
of your lungs.
mother earth,
dressed in cascading ornaments of decay.
everyday, the chimney belches
in your face, your green apparel smothered in a mass of black current.
the blade says it wants to prune your hairs to perfection
but ends up eating your hands and legs.
we see it everyday. the river crouched behind your
eyes, only flooding their banks when the clippers have gone.
your crown is heavy with stench and the face of chaos,
revealing the molds of years trailing down your
hair and burrowing their nails of civilisation deep into your scalp.
below your scalded feet, a carpet of algae curls itself.
& dead rivers ferry a family of dead things to their grave.
once your bosom was a wellspring ushering in the sun like a dish of fat things.
now, our beaks quiver from the aftertaste of loss.
our bones drum the rhythm of sorrow in their unfiltered state.
all around, the edifice of decay towers like the pride of roaring lions.
like Loki, his eyes narrowed in mock-observance.
what was once our haven now a withering palisade.
flowers cuddle our tongues with nectar.
but not now. oh not now.
how do we sing an alien hymn
with cement in our soul?
under a dying mulberry tree we huddle together.
bees drawn to the music of flowers. moths obeying the cadence of light.
birds flapping their wings to the call of memory.
frogs trumpeting their distress to the calmness of water.
an older bird breaks into a dirge, her voice rising and falling.
the sun spits magma from its
mouth as it dips into the school of clouds
o mother/you need new clothes/
who will make them for you? / she sings
your breasts are thick with possibilities/
your sons and daughters are no more/
you're dying / yet you keep giving/
their eyes are awash with complacency/
who will take care of you now?/
her voice sails with the wind, across the Mediterranean.
evening descends. we wait.
the breeze dances around. we wait. dust clouds nuzzle our faces, our wings.
still we wait for the cement to dissolve into a garden of new song.
Ewa Gerald Onyebuchi is a Nigerian writer of Igbo descent. An alumnus of Osiri University 2021 Creative Writing Masterclass taught by 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 interests are short stories and poems. His works have appeared or forthcoming in kreative diadem, the lumiere review, rigorous, the Temz review, rulerless mag, and elsewhere.