Madu Chisom // If I Am Asked To Write Her An Independence Poem // Poetry
Madu Chisom If I Am Asked To Write Her An Independence Poem I. We are the owners of the greens, But the landlords of nothing dining with undergrowths on the claws of the cemetery. Because the cleavage of power is seated with farmers who bring a basket of floods as harvest in every four rainy seasons, in this slaughterhouse. That is the home we come from. We love her, but she feeds us with the footprints of nightfall. II. So, if I am asked to write her an Independence poem, I will open her funerary book of life, knifed in the smiles of students whose watery eyes sing of endless waiting in the bliss of an unending strike. • A COW-try Growing Desert in Her Waters The cover page squeezes death into the green of my grin and grows a sea in gods' eyes. It has images of people who live by the banks of twin rivers but drink from the tongue of drought. The Blurbs are terminal wounds...
