The Exchange is the Weekly’s poetry corner, where a poem or piece of writing is presented with a prompt. Readers are welcome to respond to the prompt with original poems, and pieces may be featured in the next issue of the Weekly.
Roach by Chima “Naira” Ikoro
There are places we love that we have not gone yet, but “how” is a stupid question.
For some of us it’s Thailand, or Saturn, for others
it’s a full night’s slumber, a complete rest, freedom to dream.
There are so many people robbed of closing their eyes at night, left to literally just wait for the day.
I can see it now, the link between hatred and flattery is made evident through your disdain for how brave and audacious bugs are.
Never mind size, you wouldn’t kill something you were not afraid of,
don’t I know it?
Something multiplying instead of dying sounds like a nightmare for its assailant,
and bugs, they plan and toil just to get smashed on purpose
or smushed by accident.
Still every crumb was worth the possibility of ceasing to exist.
Their successors born brave, the spirit of fear is all they ever lose.
I can see it now, I misplaced my peace of mind before the serpent,
a creature with no hands to take it from me on his own.
Enveloped by night, I wait for the day
that my out of office email reads
the work that will free me is not in any of these spreadsheets.
I want the tenacity of a roach, and the agility of a house fly whose life you claim to spare by opening a window.
I don’t need your elusive freedom, as the Creator forgives my trespassing, He tells me this earth was supposed to be ours to share.
I’ve had my back to the sun so long, there is a garden growing between my shoulder blades.
One day, I plan to sit up straight for the rest of my life.
In prayer I beg not to wilt any time soon, pleading not to be picked either, folks always wanna mistake me for a fight
but I know my own name and it’s not nothing death could ever pronounce.
Even on the worst day of my life
I am still alive—a fact that some despise so much they hope to change it.
Just before the night consumes me, I survive out of spite.
In the wealth of love we endlessly lend each other, we find better reasons to call ourselves rich,
and I watch blessings pour out of broken people, hardpressed on every side but not crushed.
When everyone swears breaking is a curse,
the shards of our redemption pin lies to the walls of hell.
Evil boasts the life it took but we saw it laid down for a friend.
They dumped the clip in fear of that love multiplying and failed.
There are people we love, so we have not gone yet, and “how” is a stupid question to ask anyone when you, yourself might not be the only answer to our survival,
but you are definitely one of them.
Prompt:
“How does your survival honor those that came before you?”
This could be a poem, journal entry, or a stream-of-consciousness piece. Submissions could be new or formerly written pieces.
Submissions can be sent to bit.ly/ssw-exchange or via email to chima.ikoro@southsideweekly.com