How many calendars do we have to kiss with matches
before we realise it’s a highway —
not a pendulum glittered with thunder?
Even pirates wonder if the juice was worth the orange.
Turn me to a sword that never leaves its sheath —
I’d rather not pay to breathe.
But unfortunately, my knife only bleeds.
What makes you so sure you didn’t write this
in the version of yourself that simmers
and flies bridges through the night?
My eyes turn to lightning strikes
that ring chimes and bamboo flutes.
I need to consult the worms and beetles —
how to live under logs and boots.
Jesse Ojuka 
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