Bird in my Mouth, Grief in my Palms | Felix Eshiet

I.

The earth splits open like a stubborn gourd.
My shadow falls inside,
but no echo returns.
I call myself by the name my mother gave me—
soft syllables,
as fragile as a bird trapped in the teeth of a hunter.
But the trees only sway & the wind whistles like it knows my secrets.
Who am I,
if even the dirt forgets my footprints?

II

The river carries my name downstream,
kissing its belly with the weight of silence.
Grief sits in my palms,
a thing with feathers broken at the joints,
its heartbeat, a metronome for memories I cannot unlearn.
For who we be if no be shadows wey dey chase light?*
Every feather I pluck is a question unanswered,
every bone I snap hums with history’s cruel laugh.

III

The sky blushes orange,
but I can’t tell if it’s joy or blood.
What is left of me scatters with the wind,
leaves twisting into prayers,
branches into laughter—
laughter that isn’t mine.
The bird in my mouth is heavy,
its wings beating against my throat,
against the name I’ve forgotten how to swallow.

IV

I bury grief in the forest,
its grave unmarked,
its soul etched into bark & stone.
But when I press my hands to the soil,
I feel it tremble,
its pulse faint but unyielding.
I wait for silence.
It does not come.

*For who we be if no be shadows wey dey chase light?—Nigerian pidgin: “Who are we, if not shadows chasing light?”

Felix Eshiet is a Nigerian writer and Efik-Ibibio poet. His works appear or are forthcoming on Kalahari Review, African Writer Magazine, Afrocritik, Fiery Scribe Review, Stripes Magazine, Ink in Thirds, Afrihill Press, The Crossroads Review, Paraselene, Fiction Niche and elsewhere. He’s the founder & editor-in-chief at Ekóndó Review; a journal for Efik-Ibibio arts and literature.