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Prosper C. Ìféányí


in the window
of my eyes are two cold coins.
the only woman
who might have reached for
them is no longer here.
no one who built me
this bridge, watched the
furrow claim it from
underneath my legs
like sleep pills
swallowed whilst awake.
just somewhere
in the field, where
the mountain is a prayer
and dew is gold dust,
i pray that the sky protects
me from what i want.
i know once
i have my deepest
desire, even jaggery
will taste like gall
in the soft wet palm
of my tongue.
maybe when the
plants start bleeding
God won’t get away

with everything. and if
they don’t, i know the sunflowers
will. their plate
full of flames to(u/r)ch
every sunken eye.

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