Two Poems by Dipe Jola

IceFloe Press

these walls are too loud

mother chants my name through the doors –
hollow as a piped bone. she folds the letters
into an iron gun. shoots every time.
she breathes through the walls as if my name is
something too heavy to pierce the mass of grey
earth. this name, polished in the southern part
of this border is a garden of eruptions.
ronke! ronke! ronke!
salt this tongue and it rings through the house
again as if learning to call my name till it evaporates.
she doesn’t quit. my brother too. even these walls
separating us – i hear its whispers every night. It
ruffles like a radio, in search of frequency. [shriek]
the child is only a bird. my name is only a noun but
these walls chirp too loud. ronke! ronke!


A sorrow ridden lad sits with his back hinged
to a treehouse. He…

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