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    Born from the austerity

    of a gradually hostile womb,

    my chest was pumped afoul

    with weaning milk mixed

    with remnants of flecked steel.

    I courted death wantonly

    with craven box step and ornate

    crepuscular pounces.

    I learned all the moves,

    weaved through spiral ears

    and chambered hearts,

    no hinge or turn not

    yet employed, perniciously.

    Now that my reasonable razors are dulled,

    enemies are losing interest

    mid-lynching, cutting

    blows easily confused

    with heavy handed petting.

    Still, the world casually lays plans to end

    each tenure of breathing as I newly

    develop an addiction to inhaling.

            After a flood of crank calls,

    God is no longer communicating,

    for heaven is full of battered

    intentions—fond fingers running

    through long severed hairs.

            I prefer a place with no logos

    Where lingering musk

    wafts through closed corridors,

            where there is no way to rationalize a curse,

            where there is no fear worth weeping.

     

    Chukwuma Ndulue is author of the chapbook Boys Quarter (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2017). His poetry collection Holding Rain is forthcoming from Word Galaxy Press. He is co-founder of the Aftermath Arts Cooperative.

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