The grave is the colour of an open mouth,
What if death is just people falling off a cliff
And softly landing into the deep?
My mother says spirits dance
But with a whirlwind of voices
So I lick my fingers and smack my lips
This is how to lure a ghost into a tap dance
This whir is the reason for thunder
Or the whips that strain itself
Through the needle of God’s eye
And calls itself a drizzle
Roseline Mgbodichinma is a Nigerian writer, poet and blogger who is passionate about documenting women’s stories. She is currently pursuing a law degree and actively freelancing. Her work has been published on Isele, Native Skin, Down River Road, Amplify, JFA Human Rights mag, Blue Marble Review, Kalahari Review, Indianapolis Review, The Hellebore and elsewhere. You can reach her on her blog at www.mgbodichi.com where she writes about art, issues and lifestyle.
photo by Jari Hytönen (via unsplash)