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It’s pathetic how I configured myself into a prayer, yet every tableau split apart like firewoods. Such an unfaithful thing wearing out the trophy of God — or maybe it is how

things propel a balance between two horizons?
On my last birthday, I had a lump tongue. which means I have lived my whole life praying against inferno and stones. which

means, I once fetched a meal from my father’s acute history. Again My sister is another goddess, her butterflies thirst. I preach her in my stomach often. Yesterday, a big reddish onion gassed

under the sheets

Into my eyes and my bleeds desperately yearns for a spring. Is this how a bone finds comfort from the cracks of times? Before this poem — I tremble a confession; I sow a

crescent on my tongue. Perhaps each moment I ablaze my image — its smoke melted into quite the heritage of my ancestry. Reminding me that I’ve always been grief complete.

Another kind of boy who looks into the mirror; french his dialect to a boat. Which is to say — in my prayers, like a rolling ball, I still remind God of my birthplace. My knee too, a crucifix

of the body I couldn’t win. A flower withers in my compound. And I forgot the spelling of Grace. Let’s assume here, that Grace is a brief thing fading into salt waters. Inside my mouth

is a shine-less god— a spoon lacking vigor— And for two decades plus now — I have been scrabbling for petals from the fingers of an ugly zephyr. A boy recites a Bible in my

church & before me memories visible to a downpour of rain on my heart. & I remember I lost a chaplet, a rose, a bread, and myself some time ago to longing days.

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Anderson Moses (nicknamed Son of Moses) is a poet from a small village in Akwa Ibom State, Nigeria. He's a student of History and International Studies, at the University of Uyo. His works have been published/forthcoming in Arts lounge, Brittle paper, Black boy review, Eboquills, Nantygreens, synchronized magazine, and elsewhere. Apart from writing, he enjoys snapping & editing images.

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