Femicide runs into bodies like water

By Pacella Chukwuma- Eke

The grass has drunk more water from split veins
than from rain. I know it is not philosophical
to begin a poem with blood. But yesterday,
a sister ran into a field behind the sun, to catch a star,
and drowned. Her body a testament to the soil’s wrath.
The hands of men bend blood out of innocent vessels,
and the world calls it a phase running out of time.
Not many girls are fortunate enough to swim past femicide,
so they torch their fears to find the hands of God.
At night, another sister’s prayer falls into my ears
as light broken by tremor: hold me, Lord,
I don’t want this swamp to take my breath away; Lord,
hold me, I cannot meet my mother as a dirge
on the lips of another mourning day.
When prayers try to ascend, the ground becomes generous
with red. Street corners are blooming floods.
Girls stretch caution into veils to wrap their breasts,
so that even the sun cannot guess the colour of their bodies.
But these men would swear that they saw skins reddened
with seduction. And it is their birthright to run into temples,
even when its god is too young to absorb darkness.
Thus, every day becomes a mouth spilling tragedies.
The wind is a funeral song, its verses are written
in first names. The grass is a willing casket.
The girls are unwilling to drown.

BIO:
Pacella Chukwuma- Eke, author of Love in its bliss & Sins and The Apocalypse, is a student of Human Physiology in COOU, Anambra State. She tweets @PacellaEke and is on instagram @pacellachukwumaeke