Two poems by Chiamaka Onyenekwe

Numeral 1 him was   made, grunted, coughed, spluttered Into Containers tell the shape of a soul him, barely fills this one the bathtub too And enough space to ask why? Malfunction is a term for Cracked bones, empty pockets No facades, family man soft fists, help SOS how do you tell him? you cannot … Continue reading Two poems by Chiamaka Onyenekwe