Tailoring an uncultured African man into a perfect husband
She’d run her lips like a needle
piercing, thrusting in & out of me
like a fabric, seaming me into
a perfect figure.
I mean, I was an unstitched textile with
rioting dyes strewed across my body,
uncombed from everything that
resembles my black skin. I must
say, I miss the smell of pubs,
the smoldering of liquor,
residuals of cigars as it lowers my
pitch on Linkin Park’s heavy – I keep
dragging around what’s
bringing down, if
I just let go I’ll be set free.
I died many times of asphyxiation, yet
I didn’t let go of smoke,
of traveling around the circumference
of waistlines. I don’t tolerate those
screams, but I do. I always did. Mama.
Auntie. Teacher Jennie. The bank clerk.
Now my wife. She’s always over me,
ironing what was rumpled
early on. She ruffles me into
shreds & let me unshaped
sometimes, as if to say, I cannot be
stitched to her taste. Call me rags,
for I dust off the mess, I make
on her face.
Chinedu Gospel is a Nigerian poet and scriptwriter. You can reach him on Facebook @ de unique gospel. When he’s not writing, he’s listening to music or playing chess.
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