FITTED IN HIS HOLED-POCKETS

Mama's naked pot stared at my face; hunger riding through it like waves.

I saw it mouth sounds, twitches & gurgles, words prepping their breakout.

It was about to remind me of the dream I lived; it was about to remind me

that after two decades, Mama's Ada is unable to feed a pot as little as this.

I swear to God, this pot wants to sing my shame. I banged the cover, looked

away from it as my phone's ringer called me, loudly. Giving my phone attention,

Ebuka's name grinned at me, lulling the hunger raging in my belly, calmly, calmly.

I listened and listened, as he unfolds his day to me, and my mouth—without asking me—

kissed the ground when he told me of his new job, and he told me, we were celebrating

tonight. Now, my heart writes this to you, as I sit in the back of his “official" car,

hands and legs caged, lips not exempted. I lie —and—reminisce on what you will say

of me, Mma's Ada, for leaving her home, to celebrate Ebuka's new job at the bank.

Would you still ask me to stay with my hole-pocketed man?

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