Poetry
A Rose
A Piece By: Nyambura
A rose by any other name
would still smell as sweet,
but who says it has to behave?
This one blushes when noticed.
Leans into attention.
Likes to be lingered on,
not rushed past like a polite thought.
It opens slowly,
on its own terms,
responds best to curiosity
and a well-timed pause.
Not plucked.
Not claimed.
Just… awakened.
A rose can be a flower, sure,
but it can also be an invitation,
a soft little secret,
a smile that knows exactly
what it’s doing.
So call it what you want.
Whisper it.
Rename it.
Tease it into bloom.
Either way,
it still smells sweet.
Just a little more dangerous now.
By: Siona
There are many women living inside me.
One folds laundry with soft hands
and dreams of sunlight on clean floors.
One wants to disappear into forests,
become moss, become silence,
become untouched by expectation.
By: Siona
It’s nuts, I know.
Well, the story I’m about to tell.
It’s closer, maybe, to nuts. Like the knucklehead kind…
By: Siona Lootu
I weep for humanity.
I weep for the children,
The young lives lost, stolen,
