The sun was reluctant to rise,
holding grudges
from the dead night.
The gloom spread,
catching up with all of us.
I scooped water
from the mud pot
to rinse my face
and help the sun rise
and speak our cause.
I fear my daemons too.
They keeping erupting
Even in my dreams,
I see whiteness
and blinding lights.
The angels came.
They see decays,
we see dancers.
My dreams are diseased.
My dreams grow moths.
The rope almost loops
in an obvious feast of beheading.

Author Image

Ejiofor Ugwu is a street photographer. He lives in Nsukka, Nigeria. He has edited poetry for The Muse, a journal of creative and critical writings at the University of Nigeria. A graduate of the Fidelity Bank International Creative Writing Workshop, Ejiofor has had his poetry and short fiction published in Drumtide, The New Black Magazine, The Muse, Sentinel Nigeria, and The Kalahari Review. His work is also forthcoming in African American Review.

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