Calendar Teeth
each month bites
a little harder
january gnawed at hope
february kissed the wound
march spat
april laughed with blood in its teeth
may bloomed but only with weeds
june forgot how to rain
july choked on heat and old secrets
august waited by the window
counting how many times no one came
september showed up late and tired
with cracked lips and bruised hands
october whispered in riddles
and stitched all the mirrors shut
november came with empty pockets
and news no one wanted
december
held the year like a dying bird
soft at first
then tighter
until nothing moved

~

When the tap runs brown
you learn to boil silence
you learn to stretch fire
you learn that brown water
still holds reflection
and even your shadow
needs to drink
your mother names each bucket
like saints
this one for washing
this one for cooking
this one for prayers
that never leave the kitchen
the tap squeals like it’s afraid
like it knows it has nothing left to give
you learn the rhythm of scarcity
a kind of music
that lives in tin bowls
and blistered palms
you scrub stories into the floor
like dirt is the only witness
you whisper to spoons
because they don’t ask why
they just hold what they’re given
you wait for rain
like it’s a guest that forgot your name
but still might show up
dripping with apology

~

The birds don’t sing here
the birds don’t sing here
they cough
like men too proud to stop smoking
even after the last lung gave in
they land on roofs
with rust in their feathers
peck at crumbs shaped like forgiveness
then disappear
like my father’s name
in conversations we don’t start anymore
every morning i hear them
arguing with the wind
dragging pieces of sky
like unpaid rent
they build nests from shoelaces
plastic bags
and newspaper lies
i once saw one tear a page from the bible
stuff it between sticks
like even they know
some things must be kept warm
they don’t fly south
just circle the same street
like they too
forgot how to leave

~~~~~~~~~

About me:
I’m a Nigerian poet and writer with a soft spot for silence, ash, and cities that hum when they sleep. I write to document things that don’t often make it into textbooks—like water shortage, broken faith, and birds with accents. I’m chasing the edges of meaning, one poem at a time.