I am a butterfly burning. My wings are strangely stitched, tattered at the corners and hard to breathe My weight is of a flying feather fluttering to be painted in landscapes. Burning, Wounded. A butterfly burning in the bloodied heat of a collectors bloodied feet. My wings are stitched to satanic [restrict]holes incessantly stuttering prayers to zenith concubines and heavenly sighs that have been smothering in Satoa’s Sun. I am Idemili’s Daughter I am Brightly coloured and beautiful with painted lips. When you paint of me, you’ll see me. You’ll put light into the crescendo of my fluttering heights; Resplendent and iridescent, my eyes are woven with the tales of sages Centuries have outlived themselves screaming of the seams tying me to a satanic pits. When men see me they hover and wait Stutter and wish to whisper To touch In the abyss of my consciousness.
Mapule Mohulatsi is a writer, teacher, performance poet, daughter and a Zenith Concubine.
this article was published in our print quarterly number six, Poems For Freedom.