Poetry
Traffic Nuts
A Piece 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.
Or closer still… peanuts.
Peanuts. Aaah!
It all started with peanuts.
A nothing-thing, dusty, salted, small.
But there, in the shimmering exhaust of evening traffic, He saw me.
Not the frame of the car, or the slump of my shoulders,
But the woman inside the cage, the car, I mean.
A hand reached out, an exchange of copper and heat.
The crinkle of the bag was a gunshot in the quiet,
Landing in my lap like a tossed anchor.
It was a gesture so plain it felt violent;
It cracked a rib,
Opening a door to a heart that had grown scales just to survive the silence.
Then came the deluge.
The grand gestures arrived like a rising tide,
Deliberate, rhythmic, relentless.
I watched the shoreline vanish beneath my feet
Until I wasn’t just standing in the surf;
I was submerged.
No air, no weight, no ground,
Just the salt, the pull,
And the terrifying grace of going under.
By: Inkazi Editorial
What happens when the chemicals wear thin,
And unnatural light leaves tender faces burned?
When we forget that beauty’s deep within,
And unlearn lessons that our mothers learned?
Our skins grow weary, thin, and swift to break,
Stripped of the native strength that kept us whole,
Chasing a ghost for modern fashion’s sake,
While losing touch with the ancestral soul.
By: Siona
Before I tell you God’s name,
I will teach you
the language of rain.
How the earth sighs
before it drinks….
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…
