[et_pb_section fb_built=”1″ _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” background_color=”rgba(255,255,255,0.7)” width=”80%” max_width=”1200px” module_alignment=”center” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.24.0″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.24.0″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_image src=”http:\/\/societyforritualarts.com\/website_02846d40\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/02\/RW-header-3.png” title_text=”RW-header” _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” background_enable_color=”off” width=”95%” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.24.0″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”]<\/p>\n
[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row column_structure=”1_2,1_2″ _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”1_2″ _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_text module_class=”noindent” _builder_version=”4.24.2″ _module_preset=”default” global_colors_info=”{}”]<\/p>\n
I slave through frost in the feral likeness
of a snow-monger, ashore.
when I flatten my loin onto a glacier,
the ice toughens from the ground<\/p>\n
a testament to the many ways
liquid shapeshifts into a floorboard,<\/p>\n
\u00a0into what lays transparent:
glowworm, rummaging its underbelly.
the turmoil birthing a larva of light.<\/p>\n
the night stinks of easy excitation,
as rain licks the sadness.<\/p>\n
do I begrudge a weather of my own making?<\/i>
I let hail throw more light on it.<\/p>\n
that which we term ‘longing’<\/i> is life worn sideways,
to mirror us in past-perfect tense.
stampeding the thicket of language for utterance,
a four-footed rogue leak of damnation.<\/p>\n
death is a delicate chore as it is ghastly.
your loin\u2014overrun by weed, ending with soil.
throw my gaze past the lack of machete.<\/p>\n
\u00a0rust beheads the moment.
midday, a rooster claws at a family tree.<\/p>\n
I conclude, the finger is a way to wear loss,
smear my thumb where the hurt clusters.<\/p>\n
beneath the brightness of wound,
a ligament comes undone,
light softens our reflection.
my thoughts ornament the past.<\/p>\n
past, being less of previous events
& more of how to undress time,
as an orange is stripped of its peel,
even when sweetness is a memory it cannot reach.<\/p>\n
\u00a0the longing calls me by name.
there are places I haven’t been,\u00a0<\/i>
where I belong.<\/i>
monsoon wind fogging the landscape.<\/p>\n
\u00a0I imitate the mist,
till I’m one of what’s left for vanishing.
look, how gravity seems useless
in the face of harm.
I uplift, slow-paced as a budding storm,
yet I race past grace.
I raise the back of palm\u2014
stamping my fist in places beauty leaves a watermark.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
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A Weather of my own Making by Nnadi Samuel Art by Kerry MaireI slave through frost in the feral likenessof a snow-monger, ashore.when I flatten my loin onto a glacier,the ice toughens from the ground a testament to the many waysliquid shapeshifts into a floorboard, \u00a0into what lays transparent:glowworm, rummaging its underbelly.the turmoil birthing a […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":6,"featured_media":255,"parent":0,"menu_order":14,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","_et_pb_use_builder":"on","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"iawp_total_views":7,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-252","page","type-page","status-publish","has-post-thumbnail","hentry"],"yoast_head":"\n