Henrietta Ezegbe Poems

There is a room

where every window
faces inward.
...

Morning begins with small jurisdictions.
Kettle. Window. Heartbeats.
The soft arithmetic of light
entering a room you arranged
...

After the weight,
there is the silence.

Not absence.
...

Roots in shifting soil,
A quiet strength in the change —
Flourish in the now.
...

Spring Answers To Me

Spring does not arrive.
It is permitted.
...

They ask for a summary.
Themes.
Style.
...

Corridors leaned in.
Walls held expectation.
You bent, softened, polished
reflections that were never yours.
...

They whisper "too much."
They murmur "over corrected."

You listen once.
...

She moves through corridors of becoming,
not as a finished shape
but as a question
held in motion,
...

Softness,
bent under pressure.

Fracture expected.
...