Dear, if you find this, we filled
three notebooks with our abusers’ names
and fed them to a stove.
Still, they did not leave. Like how scars forget to fade
long after the wounds close up,
All that have been taken from us, still tangle
in the soft shawl of lovemaking, still dances
in crowded rooms, still walks past a group
of men and remembers to breathe. Here’s
a mouthful of remedies. Here’s nectar
storing all your air. Here’s a world
where no one wonders why you didn’t fight
and how short your skirt was that day. Here’s
a body to make your body less invisible.
Here’s a memory you can trust. Here’s
tears to last you years, and still, still, still,
still, somehow, dancing.
Precious Arinze is a freelance writer. Her poems have appeared in Mikrokosmos journal, Brittle Paper and Kalahari Review. She spends more time than is necessary googling luxury restaurants and thirsting for meals she cannot afford.