Everything is Perfect Except this City

We are seated under a cotton tree, our mat the
carpet of wool the wind has harvested, our bodies careless of the times we feigned tenderness

A night bird nesting above our heads sings of our bodies like we
were done with shame,

It is about to climax and your teeth spark fire. Between the flames,
you call me Sunflower,

tell me the Arabic word for diamond is almas, say the patches on our
bodies sing a certain lullaby,

Now and then your lips curve like banana, reminding me of the
things I stole from myself.
.
Everything is perfect except this city that puts a holy beast in the
heart of dwellers.

In a field around here, a man is burning. Another man enters the fire
with the remains of his God tied around his groin, we watch like
zombies thirsty for warmth,

Our bodies the shadows of dead men digging fresh graves, the empty
moans of fake orgasm.
..
Let us tonight call this city by other names:
Brooklyn
Chicago
Liverpool
Boston
Let us take it to Jordan for fresh baptism
Maybe the grains of our soil will be drained of the bitterness they
have collected
Maybe the salt of the water will spice the emptiness of our city
Maybe the mouth of our land will open and spit out the sins of
our fathers.

By Adaeze M. Nwadike

Biography:

Adaeze M. Nwadike is a Nigerian writer and teacher. Her works have appeared or are forthcoming in many notable magazines in Nigeria and the diaspora. She is currently working on a collection of poems that explores the experiences of women migrating to Europe through the Mediterranean Sea.