here, the only ode is a receding
of insult. instead of pillows, my guardian
uses a slab, nets it on my nape & calls it
discipline. yet, that same night, cracks open—
like an egg—a psalm with my name.
GRACE (a poem by Blessing Omeiza Ojo)
I asked a boy, an orphan, bathing the street with waters
from his body, what led his pedigree to rest.
He said it was a bullet from a drunk policeman’s riffle.