The Sharp Weight of Inheritance – Nnadi Samuel

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I do not know if hurt is my birthright”— Jason B. Crawford

knuckle withholds an English suffering, 

clenched in fierce strain.

my unsheathed hands, hurled spacelike, 

knifing a worship.

there are times my loin becomes a violation of religion:

object to be cast out.

times agony was in vogue.

here, my rib aligns to a wounded score arrowed by grace, like endnotes.

gravity lifts anguish towards the mouth. 

a prayer undone. 

teeth tightening a default sorrow, 

gnashed in the way a plectrum to my vein

spew blues, when honed afresh.

we run out of anguish, fisting a rhythm out of wrath.

I untuck my palm, rummaging for a tender torture,

an ache sufficient to match my hardship.

still, my loin hymns an awful song.

my rib, strung into a French harp.

accident seems the rawest kind of harmony:

weight— injured into hemorrhage.

‘I long to be damaged way out of the ordinary.’

look how we phrase a casualty shuttling in between violence & voice.

the ghastly lyric: a killer tune. 

rough decibel smashed onto our jawline.

the neat chaos,

a wounded melody.

no one born of reed should suffer this long.


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