It Comes in Waves                                                                           


Home, the rubbish heap flourishing,
more rubbish, lush grass:
compost monument.
Here, we used to dream of swimming–
chlorine-blue water, sipping Sangrias.
The dreams forever outside of ourselves,
made of fragments
of other countries happy on television.


For three weeks you love him,
your bodies hanging like fruits too ripe from the wrong trees.
And then you never see him again.

12:30am, 26th of April, 2014

Google search history: has Jonathan Cheban found love?
And then you type in the search words for him, for longing. You do not get a
404 Bad Request – Check your spelling for the requested URL,
you do not find him.

You fall asleep to this & the walls of your bedroom throbbing with the prayers
of a church on your street.

Upon discovering what an autobahn is

If the world breaks here, where will the cracks begin?
How long before it reaches us if walls are made of flesh?

It comes in waves

You are lying face up on a river.
You have never been on water like this.
Underneath, the world is sand and the nibble of small fish.
If you died this way,
crashing against the abutment of a bridge in Ofufe Nza,
who will know that this was not a happy memory?


Kechi Nomu's poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Bangalore Review, Saraba Magazine, Expound and elsewhere. In 2017, she was shortlisted for the Brunel International African Poetry Prize. Her chapbook Acts of Crucifixion will be published by Akashic Books in the Spring of 2018. She co-curates the interview series Poets Talk for African poets and is Managing Editor of the African Poetry Press, Konya Shamsrumi.