THE NIGHT KEEPS COMING IN ASH PICTURES
My body bears the
magic of a mirror. I mean to
say I reflect on an old age of
what burns in places spooned with
fresh pictures and grief.
the day crawls into my nails
in motion of dust. A velocity of
ruins wearing my body well. Night
falls like an empty room’s echo
on my palm and that’s the beginning of
darkness wearing a shoe into
my veins. At times, nights buckle our faces with fear and
a touch of water. do not run
is a little boy’s body
writing smoke on silent songs wringing the
wind into a remembrance of impartial wreckage.
I won’t run
for my legs still hold the distance between two rivers
walking my body with pictures and new razors.
By Mesioye Johnson
Mesioye Johnson is a bird of many colors who writes to heal his darkness and the world around his waist. His works are featured or forthcoming in African Writer, Eunoia review, Sub-Saharan magazine and somewhere else. He is @mesioyejohnson on Twitter