Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan
Image by Andre Reusch on Pixabay
Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan is a keen writer of Izzi, Abakaliki ancestry. A Final year Medical Laboratory Science student whose works have been nominated for both Forward Prize and Best of The Net Award. He was the winner of the 2021, WAN-Cookout Literary Prize for poetry. He is fond of his poorly lit room from where he tweets @wordpottersull1. He has works published or forthcoming in IS&T, B’K Mag, The Shore Poetry, Fourth River, The Sandy River Review, Poetry Column, and elsewhere.
The Pogrom of Light that Grows Me into A Conservatory with A Tarpaulin Roof
“too much light makes me nervous”
---Danez Smith
The rainy season ends in the middle of my core
& I can not say a word without ebbing into a deep—
the floorboard chalked up with charcoal.
the thing I can not forget about myself is the way
I run into hiding behind the shades of a globe
stained with soot; my favourite souvenir is a
smeared mirror— which is a son that sees me as a father
who carries himself across homelands, the burden almost
cracked up my spine into a handshake of buds, which is
what a country is supposed to be: a thing of love.
I have kept up my father's red-fleshed sky away from stars,
switched time zones to betray the fireflies aiming to light up
our home from his undressed legs— an abduction of the light that abhors a jaybird.
at such time, I shuffled into clouds where my mother forgets her knees
in the tongue of the one whose glass canopies our cranium.
she empties her mouth into the reflector upon which the sun rests
& her skin flicks like beams but I'm glad she is just a moon,
her glow is capable of no risk, which means:
there is a tender thing about every light that ripens me
into a conservatory with a tarpaulin roof— a proof that
an ample light consumes my innocence
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