Image by Vinson Tan ( 楊 祖 武 ) from Pixabay


I once believed that a bird in hand is greater than a thousand in the forest. Maybe you’ll doubt too when you see the peacock, and the oriole, oh god, the golden pheasant too.
The moon still lives in my eyes, it lurks in edges.
I should be the woman you fasted for; tender, blithe, big bold eyes that know too much but say so little, with a tint of ancient: it is what we know.
Home is calling me.
Sometimes home is west, sometimes it is north.
Sometimes it is where sin lies.
Sometimes home is where home is not
It is not so cold here like we thought — I’ve seen my first snow.
It is little cotton balls that melt like glucose powder in your mouth.
But the leaves in fall are burials.
Are our names still embedded in your father’s regrets?
Does your mother still maintain the white sheet?
I am writing a story. How, to gain a son I lost a lover.
Are you well?
I won’t say you are always in my heart — you hate clichés. Am I in your heart?
Ours is a bedtime lore that starts with finally.
I want to tell you I am sorry, but,
I am learning to be a virtuous woman.

Our son has learnt to say mama.

My name is Golden Anurika Ahuchaogu, I am from the Eastern part of Nigeria. I write from Port Harcourt, Rivers State, Nigeria.

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