I wrestled, boxed its stomach, and tore its mouth.
It felt cold and stiff, but I tore through the frost, tore it with my bare hands until my fingers stiffened.
I tore through the failure, smashed the head of unworthiness and cut through loneliness; I smashed emptiness, even dread, flattened them, rolled them up, tied them, dumped them in a sack, and slugged them on my back.
I went downhill, pulling the load
I fell and lay flat, crushed under the heavy weight of dead things.
“Help me, Lord,” I cried.
Then I heard a call, a voice thundering through the thicket.
The Lord came down, picking me up.
“Come to me, weary one, leave the burden at my feet, and I will give you rest.”
I dropped them and arose light and alive.
© 2025 Enobong O’wunmi.
