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Northeast Review

Chielozona Eze

Raising the Dead

If I didn’t tell you, you wouldn’t know.
Place your thumb on my heart – a scar.
Press a little harder – a grave.
In it repose the memories of war children
pretzeled by hunger,
children whose stomachs were globes.
I know them.
I was one of them.
I died my own death
when my mama groaned aloud for God to hear:
Please stop this war.

I am an undertaker.
Flowers no longer move my heart.
But where do I pour this handful of tears of the woman
calling on her soldier husband in the casket?

I am an undertaker.
But I am scared.
My eyes are now trained
on the many comatose, who hold on to the hope
that we would reach them a helping hand,
lift them from the graveyard of grit without gains,
the never-ending war of us against the weak.


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Some all-rounded writer with the wits to turn anything and everything to words with inspiration... cheering to glory and on...

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