Young Man's Grief

[Achebe]

Young Man's Grief


Not like a knife
but like a hundred hundred needles
grief shoots through,

prick by prick drawing
out of the body the color
(not merely red

but the defining plethora
of blues and greens, golds and browns)
until the skin is a shout

to all existence, saying
"Lost keys? Broken homes? Ruined hands?
Ha! Your art may sting

but I still hold the knife."

What's wrong with you? You're posting one masterpiece after another. Are you sure you haven't got consumption?