Blood is your dance floor
Beast is the yeast of your flour
Your moist garden is the handle of my door
And your soup is dour.
I saw a stranger, dressed in black,
Quietly step back from your door –
I saw you, a black bird in grey skies
Hatred flaming in your chest like
A torn rose.
Yet I kissed you, don’t
Ask me why – your lips parted and I tasted
Hope on your tongue
Like a squirrel hiding in the bush.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.