By Sarah O. Oso
No, the soul won’t shed its skin of scales.
Instead, it stretches—then learns to coil
corkscrew-style, into circle
over tight circle:
one brooding head, two tucked -away wings,
and the rest
all tail—an endless spool of self.
What the hell, then, can a continuum know
about time?
It’s all it’s ever been—balancing
like the tallest tower of coins—one rope piling
high. I’ve always sighed that cool taste of fire.
Sarah O. Oso is a Nigerian-American writer, poet, and storyteller. A first-generation immigrant and proud Atlanta resident, she commits to honoring the human experience through highlighting the importance of spoken and written expression. Her poetry crosses the bounds of genre and language, and often explores the intimacies of identity, heritage, human connection, and faith. Numerous local readings and art events, including the annual AJC Decatur Book Festival, Poetry at Tech, Agnes Scott Writers’ Festival, and ArtsXchange have featured Oso’s work, and her poetry has been Pushcart Prize nominated, currently appearing in New Ohio Review, Rigorous, and Passengers Journal, among others.