& suddenly yesterday I stopped being twenty.

I am tired of being found alive.


It was night a minute ago.

I keep losing my head —


Surprised it is always found in the refrigerator:

Citalopram-stench, blueprints of L.


Last night I was so old I could only do one thing:

Trailed the lady that taught me how to use my penis,


Bought us a drink, held her hands in my palms,

Searched for God & even though she had grown old now


She was still willing to teach me again

In case I’d forgotten what I learned at nine.


You don’t mind, milady?

I like my Ds young, she smiled.


Every minute about 25 million stars die.

They end up on earth, as dusts, maybe or


In space, maybe, still floating, gathering

Hydrogen, helium, et al, like the woman,


Waiting to be born again —

I don’t know my science well.


I struggle too understanding God:  how

He could go in & out of Mary without permission,


Caught but never brought to books.

Last night when the city lights came down,


My head was out of the refrigerator again. I kissed her goodnight

& set the house on fire; none of us survived.



Akpa Arinzechukwu is a Nigerian dealing with his numerous identities. His work has been published by or featured in the 2017 Best New African Poets anthology, Sou’wester, Transition, London Grip Poetry, Eastlit, ITCH, New Contrast, The Flash Fiction Press, The Rising Phoenix Review, Packingtown Review and elsewhere. He was a finalist for the Sophia May Poetry Contest and longlisted for the Koffi Addo Prize for Creative Nonfiction. He is the author of the poetry chapbook, CITY DWELLERS (Splash of Red Press).