UNTITLED by Millicent Iyke

Elders of our land, I salute you.
Wise owls like you indeed are few.
I was married to him for twelve years;
Living in a fierce matrimonial furnace
Obeying the supreme command
Being submissive to my husband
Believing the bee merits access to the honeypot
Whether the possessor likes it or not,
Letting him ride me like a horse
Ten times a day of course.
But he repaid my love and submission
With violent currencies, fistful ammunition
He put my heart beneath his shoes
My womanhood sparked with pain like a burning fuse
Yet I never breathed a word nor proposed a fight
My love was too strong, too blind, too right.
Till one day he returned with pornographic DVDs
And handed me a pack of sexy undies
And for the first time I said No to him.
He tore my clothes and forced his dangling rod in!
When the deed was done, he smiled
The next moment he died.
I hit him with a pestle,
Love would leave me no more frail and brittle.
My love was too pure, too sanctified, too right to have been wronged
And my poor heart burst in grieving song:
“What is left of what is right is a scorned woman
Soaked with bitterness and hatred for that man,
What is left of what is right is a violated murderer
Bearing a morula without a father,
What is left of what is right, is a little bar of soap
Immersed in deep waters of agony, liberating bubbles of hope
That someday, what is right will be whole again
And broken hearts of widows; heal, rise, and dance in the rain”.

About The Author

Leave a Reply