Black Body, Black World

by Paul Chuks

Gary Scott

Man is a yes between two genitals. One body said yes to another & I was born. A cluster of eumelanin strands gather for a hair that serve as mattress for gravity & other things that burn overhead. society calls me black but melanin goodness is what I call myself. Here, I am several simultaneous voices away from grief; one ricochets back to me at the cry for help; others stay for protest.

Some days, I am blacker than night, I could nestle in my shadow & nobody will know. Other days, I’m the bullet’s favorite jacket. However the story is told, a black man is always the hard pebble in Society’s sling. Worse, it hits another black man in the chest, he bloodlets.

In my photographs, when I look again, I see what is not there. My experience translating into virtues; like when I see my head standing On patience. Instead of a neck. With this colour, we loot death everyday to survive; hence, another day alive is another day forked from the hands of death.

The limits of my language is destiny binding me shoulder to shoulder With people who look like me. Our names are radius drawn within reach for cuddles from ancestors. To understand this color, let me tell you first about my bombardment with history & nature, & that black is a harmony of the soul & the cosmos

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Paul Chuks is a songwriter, poet and storyteller. He is of Igbo descent and resides in Nigeria. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Brittlepaper, Epoch press, Streetcake magazine, Blueriver magazine, Glass poetry & elsewhere. He’s a reader at Palette Poetry & Forge literary magazine. When he’s not reading or writing, he’s analyzing hip-hop verses or moving his body rhythmically to the music, raving his roof.