Covidéjà vu.

By Jean Pierre Nikuze.

Unhand that twig
& recede
into your tenebrous tub!

Backtrack, creep
in reverse. Sibilate!

Like a funambulist
hinged,
the gasping close by
notwithstanding,
backpedaling

on a duly oiled
unicycle, silently
as time en route
even
as time unlapsed,

career backwards
& grow into your death
as the rouged user
of a concave mirror
colors her vim.

Tumble back first
heel into curb,

miss the ground’s receipt
of your inion, only
a figure of speech
you levelled bastard,

you bleeding out beast,
cursed owner
of a
staunchless wound,

the compound
good-as-dead;
in three syllables: carrion.

Glide, wriggle, convulse,
rousted by the tail

as in an ill-matched
tug of war,

for though
the wild goats are as

close as Wales,
all who’d been to Eden
died off
with the memory
of whereabouts.

Poet Bio:

Jean Pierre Nikuze is a Rwandan writer and poet.

Windows.

By Jean Pierre Nikuze.

Bumbling behind masks,
the world’s on the wrong side
of a beekeeper’s suit.

Provisional signatures of eyes
for God knows how long.
Each blink a flag
by which we hail & respond.
Call it a promotion.

For lack of competition
from the facial household,
they’ve become that
we always ascribed to them.
Also, chimneys, doors, balconies…

Poet Bio:

Jean Pierre Nikuze is a Rwandan writer and poet.