He was not a gardener
He broke stems, plucked petals, devoured her whole
So, she bloomed like a belladonna as he swallowed
She was the wreath they hung on his unmarked grave.
He was no poet
Broken promises and knives for letters, he tore her apart
She became the sword that buried herself in his heart
His body was too mangled for polite viewing.
She was water, she was air,
Formless and bending into the shapes he created
Like all good women she birthed what was given.
She became chaos and darkness,
She was the noose we found around his broken neck.
This poem was published in the January 2022 Edition of the WSA Magazine
Read – The Last And The Least – A Poem by Philimon Nchimunya, Zambia
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Beautiful Piece