Harmattan Blues By Chinaza James-Ibe, finalist for the 2025 Stephen A. DiBiase Poetry Prize

oh

fresh-cut spear grass dreaming of rain

on the plains of our Ilo

shebi i warned you that your thirst was elastic

i dream of my father's cracking knees

and butt-naked children

farting

i dream of my grandmother's armpits

and her gray hair

crackling like a little bush fire

shebi i told you that the palmwine gourds

would rise again

see

oases have migrated into our stomachs

and we have learned to laugh without 

coughing up the source of our laughter

hush

can't you see that mama ukwu

has exhumed her favorite Hollandis

and the graves are untended

and the ghosts are alive

and at the backyard

somebody is plucking scent leaves 

to bedeck our pot of 

yam pepper soup and mushrooms 

can't you see that the fallen child 

is still laughing

and a moth has perched

on her grazed knee 

for so long

you can call her fuschia

oh

my jesus

it is the season of meat again 

an assortment 

of oblivious ark dwellers

nchi /  ewu / mgbada

the backyard chickens 

have come clucking for help

in my dreams 

but i am no messiah 

i pluck their feathers

and twist their necks

and spill their blood as a 

rite of passage

it is the season of passion 

again 

look 

the wind has kissed

my mother so hard

her lips are bleeding 

oh

fresh-cut spear grass 

the children are clasping 

dandelions between their eyelids 

shebi i told you 

that these songs would 

outlive my sadness 

nevermind that my heart 

is aching

nevermind that my thirst 

is stretching catapult-like

into January into do not leave me

like all things

you have died

but oh 

my jesus 

it is the season of meat 

again.