Standing on a hump,
a chilled remorselessness
of a shadow trauma climbs out of a sealed
grotto of infinity
like a vas deferens, spilling fiddled lies.
You grope for your identity in griping
acceptance. From the umbilical cord
the pink flesh brandishes a monster.
You forget the vowels in a solo monologue
in a tormented accent, muffled
in bleeding throat. Take my ears
for cosmetic therapy, which killed my hearing.
Between blindness and tidy rocks
I am walking discreetly to count the
digs of mysterious armless truths:
disappeared in the pages of history.
Still Living on my Feet is the follow up to Tichaona Chinyelu’s first book, In the Whirlwind, which was rooted in a sense of hard-hitting revolutionary black love. However, in this sophomore effort, Tichaona brings the revolutionary essence from deep
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