The Suicide of Plants
Tomorrow at my door
I will find an angel with a broken wing
And a bleeding tongue, begging for little music
Then I will close my eyes
the morning pours forth from a burrowed sky
every inch, a foamy eye
scathing brown-reddish empty holes, for air.
with a clay heart, don’t wish for ground
don’t smile at rainbow rodents clawing within.
every bird has forgotten, their penchant for blue
to be a juxtapose with the clouds, but not sit
too long, because like rain they can break ground
smooth wooden boxes, sitting numb in a hallow
leafless, like old melting scripts.
a pure seedling bean, takes earth somewhere
small puddings lost in an ocean
to become oceans, tipped with a grimace of death
hiding in every shade of shadow,
it drags along
a stone-powdery night on the moon
with clear-water sights of spark-like sandy stars
& the deep white questions, leaking
from a creaking rock core …
…to going against the sun’s gravity—
a clean leafy bend into the soil.
Ebuka Evans: "I am a writer from Nigeria, and currently pursuing a B.A. in English and Literature at the University of Nigeria. My works touch on the deep happenings of life, depression and death mostly. My works have appeared or are forthcoming on NantyGreens, Our Life Logs, Ngiga Review and elsewhere."