CP Nwankwo

April, If I Could Flee

April, if I could flee,
I would. I would unbutton this body,
peel it like the soft rind of an udara fruit,
let the wind cart me away in the name of
feathered things: egret, nightjar, hornbill,
and a couple of homebound birds winging
towards dusk. I would sing myself into a river—
two mouths of catfish, three hungers of an angler,
and four, the month of a debt: a body to drown
or a boat to dine. freedom surely floats with water. 

April, if I could flee,
I would. I would enter the ribs of the forest,
carve a whisper among the pawpaw leaves,
soak my innocence until it bears fruit.
with a keg of palm wine, I would watch
the world unfold like the pattering steps
of a pregnant cloud. believe me, my body
still desires the rhythm of a new calendar’s day. 

but April holds me still.
its rain drapes over my shoulders,
soft as my grandma’s voice calling me home.
the wind still folds me in her keepsakes,
and her thunder names me among the living. 

so I stay. outside the window.
I stay. outside of myself.
I stay and dream,
of fleeing.
of staying,
of becoming.

Back to Issue XIII…