A New Kind of Love

    after Meghan Privitello


This is a new kind of love. No one is running. This could be my fault. I am always standing at the door. Because of you, I have stopped talking about Jesse because he won’t stop talking about my dress. I said Jesse, we just met, we should take it slow. What if a room is another way to say the war is over. The last lover slipped out of my door and became a gun. I wanted to hold him like a frame and dance to Celine Dion. If I lock the windows and doors, will you still love me? Either way, I will still be a pilgrim wife and you will drive the wagon. I will be a good wife and take the blender with me in the bathtub. This is a new kind of love. No one is hiding. We are surrounded by walls who would tell no one we were ever here. I can settle an old score with the cobwebs while you fix the sink. This is a new kind of love. No one is burning. A beautiful prison. I have dreamt of it. You, knocking my door with your chest open. Me, knocking your chest with my heart open. You are a husband. I am a wife. We won’t argue about who will sleep at the right side of the bed because there would be no sleeping. This is a new kind of love. No one is dying. Even when we die, I want it to feel like we are holding hands in our sleep.

*Italicized lines are from ‘A New Language For Falling Out of Love’ by Meghan Privitello (Yes Yes Books, 2014)

The Face of War


Your face led me to a land

where trees are naked

and birds are mute.

Where the face of water is

covered by blood.

I listen to the sound of termites

emptying trees and

the whirl of dusts growing wing.


Your face took me to a land

where boys are trees

and girls are mute.

Where the face of heaven is

covered by flame.

I listen to the sound of soldiers

emptying guns and

the wail of children chasing night.


Your face showed me a land

where shadows are lovers

and walls are mute.

Where the face of light is

covered by webs.

I listen to the sound of silence

emptying rooms and

the song of war haunting ghosts.


    after David Ishaya Osu


watermarks, i want

to die holding a shadow

with my eyes and pretend

i don’t know why

the sky is black or

why my lover’s back is

prettier than a gun—she ate

bullets that asked for

her underwear


helping to find it. i couldn’t

stop her

she was red, blue

blue and red

Shadows and Empty Rooms


Walls belongs to secrets

made up of moans and blood.


There is a pocket inside mirrors

that keeps the faces of lovers


whose bodies pronounce

the name of every war and riot.


In a house, sunset settles

inside a crying shadow


begging the wall for a room.

Only a mirror knows the haven


of ghosts, only a ghost knows

the heaven of bullets and lo

- Wale Owoade