Eclipse

By Stephen Nwankwo
1.

PAIN / My grandmother didn’t cry—she boiled sorrow into soup and fed it to us on Thursdays. The taste of grief is bitter and broiled. She buried three sons, and wore their names in her spine. I once asked her what pain feels like and she said: “Like a hymn stuck in your throat.” So I swallowed every ache whole. Taught my ribs to hold secrets. My body became a museum of unopened doors. Pain is not a feeling, it is a ghost that makes your mouth a bedspace.

2.

LAUGHTER / My laugh is illegal in five countries. Too loud. Too alive. Too much like freedom. When I was born, the nurse flinched—said I had a smile like stolen gold. In my town, joy is taxed and laughter echoes like sirens. We giggle in Morse code. We chuckle in the spaces between bullets. Some nights, I laugh into pillows just to prove I exist. Some nights, my laughter crawls out the window and doesn’t come back.

3.

PEACE / Peace is a word that limps. It has a limp, and a lisp, and no passport. I found peace once—tucked in X’s left dimple, a night before bombs started dropping again like hailstones. The world is ending—finally we are making peace with our past mistakes. Peace is a man in a white suit who offers you flowers but forgets to mention they’re growing from a mass grave.

BIO:
Stephen Nwankwo is a poet, short story writer, and essayist who graduated from Father O’Connell Science College. He wields words and aspires to soar to great heights. He takes his writing work very seriously and is dedicated to sharing his vision with the world.