My severed head,
Processing all that is a delicate touch from changing,
Strung out lightning bugs pinging on the bleached walls of my bare skull.
slick droplets slather my skin
Violent in their reproach
but still, my body dances.
Betrothed to me by me,
A lover once belted a lowly tune
Carrying notes of uncertainty.
Bloated and bathing in blue light
Showering in hollow rays
Mist in my eyes
A hand over my mouth
Forced to drop my husk and surrender.
Baptism in the Mountains
Yeama H. Bangura is a writer and cultural essayist interested in the strange relationship between the self and the world around it. Her work draws from philosophy and personal experience to question the ways language, relationships, technology, and social structures shape the realities we inhabit. Her writing has been published in perediza.
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