May 25, 2025

by PROSPER IFÉÁNYÍ

Projecting

I have lost touch with so many things

and I owe this to war.

I strongly desire to do something to fix 

my feelings— the desire to go all out with

the ache. But because sometimes

the ache does not happen, because it had never

happened, because it was not happening, 

I look for things, like the inappropriate time

to say: I need help. 

When I am not anxious, I get jealous. 

Do you know how it feels for something

to always have your attention?— 

for the birds to matter for a while, even if it beats

your imagination like the softness of powder?

When I don't want something to happen

I make eye contact with lovely people

meeting me for the first time—

we go on & on about who has died in our lives. 

The hike in the price of things after the war.

Who will we resurrect with their pictures tucked in

our breast pockets—?

The little tears we mask with the concealer

& eyeliners—all of us, projecting & 

pushing pain.

*

Heavensgate

Bold, & crass even

To imagine for a split second

That I

Would sit     close to God 

& chew the fat   about the heavens

& its embrace—

I, pillar of salt turned molten ash

I, a prairie with no wind

To call a tail, seasoned with infirmities

I    am too vain to proclaim

I

Amble headlong into the crashing

Of light; faithed in things

     Known to have failed 

A generation

            I see a cask in the sky

& God’s hands

            Pouring out—as if to say:

Come; as if to say: I 

    See you