Volume Four, Issue 2

Abasiama Udom

My Mother Blesses the Bath Water

It was the trouser the girl entered the church with that put an end to the message,
and launched a tirade on the second coming--
But the second coming would come for liars of which the priest was one.
My mother blesses the bath water but the ringworms defied and filled my head at nine.
It was the little things that echoed their strong voice and emotion,
I feel like dying by no other hand but mine and they give a whisper
for such a thing is never heard of, not here in the church, except my prayers I had forsaken,
and dwelt amongst blasphemers.
Still mother blessed the bath water, I hear her voice crossing the borders of the bath room.

With the Morning

With the morning comes the mourning
on the heels of a warning bell,
a ray of golden darkness
a shower of thunder and lightning.
For the owl dances by the window
singing the song of salvation that never will come,
with the morning comes the mourning.
Mothers will call, no sons to heed,
no family to share the pot with and time will stop,
only to heed their tears.

Sackcloth and Ashes

The Neem tree would bear witness of her tears
even those she had shed in the silence of night,
praying for a death swift to save her from one slow.
The Neem tree never consoled as she wept,
belittling that on it she leaned, awash with grief.

For the wedding she had chosen a garment special,
sackcloth and ashes sewn from the hottest of fires and coals,
eyes blinking back tears she would walk to him,
a defiance in the brown gaze they say she possesses,
throwing her head back, she will wait.
Then maybe, she would be declared ugly, to be tossed back to her class and school
for it had been days ago she had run to Mama to show the blood on her skirt.
'You are now a woman' Mama had said sadly.

We Pray

"... Waves from the same sea."

Untroubled by the sun that tears the earth,
willing to abide beside,
we stand alert, atuned to the ring of our cries.
We touch hip to hip as we run past on our lanes,
waves beating as hearts together,
two ships sailing to the same stars;
Now we find a prayer, bowing our heads we pray,
'May the rumbling waters not drown us in these moments'.

Abasiama Udom: "I am a Poet and Writer with words scattered all over including at Rigorous Magazine and U-rights Magazine.

“I live in Akwa Ibom, Nigeria with my family (parents and brother) and find the time to sleep, dance or watch football.


Top of Page

Table of Contents

Visit our Facebook page          Visit us on Twitter

editors AT rigorous DASH mag DOT com
webmaster AT rigorous DASH mag DOT com