You ask, but won’t utter the malady should it conjure to life.
Speak only of what you believe.
Spew your hate for tiny pills clogging my broken mind from groggy mouth. Let sacred breath pass your lips and bless me seven times over.
Sadness? She has no home here.
But we can join hands and kneel and hope she sprouts angel wings to travel back to heaven.
I think my therapist is finally getting me.
As far as arguments go, one of your holy fan mails may be answered this year.
This battle cup is threatening to spill over.
Miracles depend on faith to survive. I believe in you.
Lisa Sammoh is an African diaspora writing from Vancouver, Canada. Her works, featured in the Kalahari Review and iö Literary Journal, and elsewhere, touch on the intersectional nuances from back home.