The flowers couldn’t run,
so I bent them.
I plucked their petals,
they were flexible and quiet.
Days after days,
One after the other.
Then I noticed the slim frame of their stalks,
Twisted them till I cut them from the stems.
If that didn’t help I made holes in the leaves,
leave them bruised.
I never broke a tree.
When I was done with that street
I moved to a different neighborhood,
I’d uproot the shrub and pour tar in the soil,
Homeless.
Even when I was rough and they would cut me,
I would try again.
A seductive white,
a shy green,
an angry yellow,
a bruised violet,
an unyielding pink,
scattered around my feet,
pressed in a bag,
they all looked the same to me.
Good for the pictures.
Good for love.
Good for under my dresses.
Gardener after gardener,
they know my name.
Grabbing them in the night,
from their pots,
when they’re young.
A few naira here,
dollars there,
turn a blind eye,
to kill a girl.
Bury her body.
Underneath a poem.
Underneath a shelf,
bury a poem.
To bury your conscience,
Underneath the size of a boner.
