Poetry Corner

Ayomide Bayowa

since I last saw a corkscrew 
pop a gaseous cache,

self-split broilers had saluted a handful 
of worms neglected eggshells, finely.

per day, a newborn is found paddling the 
river by the mountainside. river snakes bade

yo-yo dolls in springy bellies: with nerve-tip 
umbilical(s); ready to hiss, shed or spit grief.

mothers wipe-clean the lantern glassed earth 
with tears, without drenching its short-lived wick.

proof-solution for separating dust from soul from water from 
kerosene. the last smoker mourner licks a tribunal tribute:

of returning home with dull headlight & cigarette trafficator, 
paper bills of health & death. Balance carried down.

Fizzing the maws of dishonorable fishes, 
Mr. Titus has always been a sweet man.

Daughter of the Sun
Joy Pius

As a babe is captivated by the voice of their mother. 
I listened to the tale of how I came to be.

“The sun, encircled by eight planets still felt lonely. 
In her darkest hour of anguish, she wept, and droplets of gold 
struck the soil, forming buds that blossomed, birthing her children.
The Nubian Goddesses. Silk skin kissed by melanin. A crown 
that defies gravity. Espresso eyes. Big hips. Thunder Thighs. 
Rows of pearls surrounded by blood-stained lips. 
Curves that make an hourglass jealous with rolls sweeter than Cinnabons. 
The aroma of shea nuts and coconuts. They were magical entities. 
Witches that couldn’t be burned.”

Grandmother leaned in, her forehead brushing against mine.
In the language of the gods, she whispered, 
a whisper that shook the earth.

“Eghonghon, you are the daughter of the sun.”

Kuicmar Phot

The ghost inside the mirror has eyes just like mine
So I’ll watch the winter storm through my window to pass the time
The giants on the hill will watch me through my ceiling
I’ll rub my feet in the campfire until the mouse in my ear stops squealing
Then I’ll hear how fast the cars drive by and melt my skin into the tiles

Maybe then I’ll call an old friend and get too scared to speak
A hand wrapped around my throat turns the words into a squeak
Tell her I retired from melancholy because of the low supply
The whispers slip through the sink and the phone line starts to die

I’ll pluck my teeth and brush my skin and bury it underwater
And dream about the cloud that passed my house when I was a toddler
I’ve got the world spinning in my faucet but I still can’t sleep
I can feel my blood singing from my nose down to my knees

The giants hid behind the trees and I think my friends are bored of me
So I’ll live in the bathtub 
and hope the feelings sink

Staff Writer (Volume 49) — Kuicmar is completing a Forensic Biology specialization and a Creative Writing minor. This is Kuicmar’s first year as a staff writer for The Medium. She usually writes for the Opinions and Arts and Entertainment sections. She can’t wait to share her thoughts, opinions, and poetry. When she’s not studying or writing, you can find her watching movies, shooting arrows in archery, updating her Letterboxd, watching F1 content, reading NASA articles, or listening to music. You can find Kuicmar on her Instagram and Linkedin.


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