samuel a. adeyemi

"AT THE MENTION OF GRIEF"
content warning for self-harm

You call me poet—I am just nineteen &
elevating grief; all my verses, siblings

holding themselves. Or is it not the same
penury pouring into another page?

A different colour, the same prism.
Darling, tell me if I repeat myself.

My greatest fear is to finish a poem
& find another feeding on its silhouette.

Tell me if you tire from my lament.
I am aware that at the mention of grief,

a poem begins to discolour—like
a bead of blood bruising water.

But is it not the misery that precedes the
verse? The cut is antecedent to the bleed.

I will not allow grief to scarlet a page, if
a blade never made a violin of my wrist.

Darling, are you still cynical of my malady?
Even now, two birds sing beside my window;

do not let the sky deceive you,
her clouds are not thicker than your despair.

& who am I to object this prickly crown?

Surely, they know the gloom of the heavens
well, that rain is more saltwater than rain.

Remember when I called misery a rope
pulling us to its peak? Verily, I have arrived.

Look at all the red spider lilies
hemming the precipice.