Pounded Yam - By Ifeanyi Michael Akuchie

Tonight
I sit before a big ball
of whiteness.
I think
that my heart is white with purity,
but
it is red with blood,
tainted by the world...

I dig my hands
into the serving.
I take out a morsel,
a bolus;
I stare at it for a while...
years die as i stare.

Download Our FREE Android App NOW

I dip it
into the bowl of black soup;
a dark jungle
where the meat of animals is present.
This yam,
the enlightened one,
goes in to teach the soup...

SCRIPTOPHOBIA eBOOK

How to be wise
and how to die,
even if wisdom is applied,
this yam,
the invader,
it takes some soup with it...
children
chained
with bones
and those chains.
They hurt like hell
hope has left them.
Even peace too.



And as I take in the mixture
a changed taste
fills my mouth
different from what I have known always.
And I swallow
years of existence;
an entire race is halved.

All in a night
the yam is the tool
of my satisfaction.
My hunger dies.
As I push the plates away,
they die too,
the children of the soup;
and I die too,
and I am buried.

Download Our FREE Android App NOW

In the place of stolen fullness
forcefully extracted
from a bowl of dark soup,
change comes;
no longer the pounded yam.
This time,
I am the change;
the all and all.

Download Our FREE Android App NOW


Propellerads

Do you have an article you’ve written or would like to write? 
 Something else you’d like to share with us on Prose & Poetry Hood? 
 Don’t hesitate to send submissions to poetryhoodcontact@gmail.com or. 
 Thank You! 



powered by TinyLetter

Subscribe to Poetry Hood by Email

Labels: , , , , , , ,