A part of my body is dead,
hardened and now so hard you could use it as a door knocker or the
beak of a woodpecker; it has turned the soot of Black Death, of
Shanghai smog; I want to crack a nut on it like a squirrel, parched
walnut brains waiting inside; perhaps it’s for the best such rot, or some
people, are hard to crack; the dead part of my body is on the extremity,
where it’s visible unlike emotional death but can’t be seen, hidden by
socks and shoes like jokes and smiles to ward off the stench of
insecurity; it’s funny carrying around death like this, death my
haemorrhoid, my inherited locket; I live as a different name. They say
it’s a chilblain gone wrong, stuck too long, but it’ll disappear soon too,
the way everything does.
Dide is an award-winning writer, artist and composer-performer. Her debut poetry pamphlet was published by Broken Sleep Books in March 2022, and her debut poetry collection will be published by Verve Poetry Press in April 2023. Her work has appeared in The Rialto, Propel Magazine, Popshot Quarterly, The Bath Award and elsewhere. You can find her online at www.dide.uk and on Instagram @_d_i_d_e_, and buy her pamphlet here.