BROKE ME

By Ogeh Cynthia Onuzulike

It carved grief into my bones. 

I wore sorrow like a second skin, 

each breath a prayer 

for the pain to pass, 

each tear became a baptism 

into the truth I didn’t want to know.

From the wreckage, 

I rose.

Not all at once. 

Not with ease. 

But with trembling hands and doubtful mind,

With pain that turns to purpose and back to despair,

I gathered the shards 

of who I used to be.

I stitched my soul 

with threads of grace, 

Prayed the Hail Mary to soothe wounds, that runs deep... 

I whispered to myself 

“Ogechukwu you are worthy. 

Nne, you are not broken. 

Nwa, you are not half of anything. 

You are whole. 

You are enough. 

You are the full package".

I met myself again,

not the version shaped by pain, betrayal, and heartbreak.

But the one who dances barefoot in her own becoming, 

the one who writes her name in ash and in gold seams of kintsugi and calls it sacred.

Now, I bloom 

not in spite of the fire, 

but because of it. 

My roots run deeper. 

My voice rings clearer. 

My love is mine to keep and to give.

Let the world know: 

I was broken, 

but I am not bitter. 

I was betrayed, 

but I am not bound. 

I grieved, 

but I grew.

And from the ashes, 

I am building a life 

that no one can burn.

I am Ogeh Cynthia Onuzulike,

And, I have become,

The Flame

IN MOURNING

Dr. Archan Mehta

I want you to know, gentle readers,

That I lost my old man today: Dad,

What can I say? This is a challenging

Time for me, you see, so I request you

To support and cooperate with me: I

Mean this in a friendly way, but I won’t

Be taking any calls; nor will I entertain

Personal visits from well-meaning Kith

And Kin: I need space and privacy to

Let this tragedy sink in. I know this will

Be a process, long and hard, and I will

Have to lay my cards on the table: being

Open, honest and transparent are a must,

As I struggle to pick myself up from the

Ashes and dust of reality. Once I recover,

And find peace of mind, rest assured, I will

Host a party and we will talk about happier times.

ODE TO DAD

By Bobby Z 

I walk to work,

and carry my lunch.

have no money,

can't take the bus.

The walls are cold

and the bowl won't flush.

the ice man came and left,

so the ice box went bust.

Dad came home,

and started his usual crap,

started yelling at mom,

fell asleep on the floor from to much sneaky Pete.

The kerosine man,

came and left,

he said you have no money,

so you have no heat.

The cockroaches are dancing,

they rule the walls at night,

the plaster starts cracking,

time to pull the covers over your head real tight.

The door comes crashing down,

and he says he's finally home,

I guess he doesn't know,

that we want to be left alone.

The time comes and goes,

and he's finally gone and can no longer berate,

he's buried somewhere in Potters Field,

and thank God he'll never get to see the Pearly Gates.

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