Chimezie Ihekuna (Mr. Ben)’s short dramatic novella The Broken Mirror explores the intergenerational loss of self that can result from abuse and broken family relationships. The conflict between two Nigerian immigrant twin sisters, Shade and Joke, involves Shakespearean twists and devices as characters destroy those who were once closest to them.
While each person is responsible for their own actions, the choices they have are impacted by those of the others around them. The book kicks off with a vicious argument between husband and wife Bode and Cynthia that results in Bode beating Cynthia badly enough to send her to the hospital and her filing for divorce. Soon, though, we see that Bode himself was a victim, unemployed due to a conspiracy of dishonest coworkers.
Rather than excusing characters’ actions by implying they are the result of impersonal societal forces, this book gives even greater importance to the need for each character to act as ethically as possible, because their actions have the potential to impact even those beyond their immediate circle.
The short length of this book means that the settings – homes, hospitals, and workplaces in California over the past several decades – and the physical action are described quickly. This leaves some things up to the imagination and gives the book the feel of a stage play.
Overall, Chimezie Ihekuna’s The Broken Mirror builds high suspense as we watch the drama unfold towards its tragic conclusion. It’s readable in one sitting and also suggests through the title and the literary device of identical twin characters that when we choose to harm others, we destroy not only the others, but parts of and reflections of ourselves.
I am awakened by an explosion & a faint flash of orange light.
& the successive blast of rocket after rocket shakes these four-a.m. streets.
Gunpowder smoke drifts down the main avenue towards the pier.
Nearby, at a makeshift stall, men sit drinking beers.
They yell in English at this foreign lady up on the hotel balcony of termite-gnawed wood.
She ignores them.
A weak shaft of light shines out from her room.
The stall owner sprawls in her chair.
Her blue dress stretches across splayed knees.
Her closed-eye head rests on an upturned hand.
Cumbias flow from a jam box, gentle wash of waves behind them.
After the last reverberation of the last rocket fades, a marimba begins playing up in that central park.
~ ~ ~
Several hours later, morning dusk washes over the gulf, the islands, the shoreline.
The rose-colored full moon fades.
On the corner of the pier avenue & Calle Marina, a person lies stretched in a hammock strung under a palm-thatched porch, unawakened, unmoved by the loud voices of those men who are still drinking.
A couple hurries down that long pier to where others await a panga for the mainland.
Soon one leaves riding deep in the leaden water.
The buzz of the outboard motor fades with its distance.
Twittering birdsong fills the sparse-scattered trees.
The distant landscapes clear.
CROSSING THE ISTHMUS
I.
We escape the banana plantations
& enter mountains
Stilted homes of
cane slat, palm thatch
nestle into the folds of
The land carpeted with
bamboo, ficus, palms &
flamboyant flame-colored flowers
In this sear noon sun
clothes hang on lines
Wending now & again
glimpsing below a plain &
Bahía Almirante
Near San Agustín a cemetery
of nameless same white headstones
deeply carved with numbers
Then on the heights
above that bay &
its islands
II.
Into the cordillera
that is the spine
of this country
Serpentining
a river serpentines
through the jungle
Serpentining
past small cattle ranches
A mother & her children
walk under a large umbrella
Serpentining serpentining higher
these mountains
the trees tower
Deep valleys in patched
shadow & sunlight
Broad ríos meander
a swift roadside waterfall tumbles
The air is cooler
clouds descend on peaks
III.
& dimly on the horizon
sabanas stretch to
a lacey coast
wending wending
down into warmer air
Away from the clouds
towards the
Pacific Ocean
FROM SHORE TO SHORE
When we leave the south side of Isla Santa Cruz, the light rain still falls.
And into the highlands, the misting fog heavy. The scent of escalesia and lichen-draped palo santo is so faint – like a fading watercolor in this garúa.
To the twin craters of this island’s volcano, heading north. Here, the sky is sun-cleared, sun-dried. The landscape a bit more sere, less green – but much greener than when I came three months ago. And on this side, the earth is free from the hand of man. We are ascending, drying. Then, descending to Canal de Itabaca which separates this isla from the island to the north.
Outside this bus window, I watch for the gentle giant, the Galápagos tortoise, who – at times – wander to this highway, watching the humans come, the humans go in their metal shells.
That channel is now visible, a broad blue ribbon draping the northern coast / shore. To the west the Daphnes, Mayor and Menor, dot the sea. On the distant horizon is a large, hazed island, perhaps Santiago.
And on the shore of that canal, I watch small dory fish swim this way, that way, above larger, blue-bellied fish. Across the turquoise water, several frigatebirds soar above the rough, red-lava cliffs streaked with guano. A great blue heron wades along on the shore green-laced with mangrove.
Lorraine Caputo is a wandering troubadour whose writings appear in over 400 journals on six continents, and 23 collections – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks.
Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and thrice nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America with her faithful knapsack Rocinante, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her adventures at:
On the Dilating Pupils of Heroes
I know your titles are passive and distanced from your being,
but I am awake and observe while the rumor spreads
The rumor begins: they cannot sleep at night,
their pupils dilating as they toss and turn,
sheets pulled over contorting bodies
too similar to bloated dead men floating down thick rivers,
history hates them more than death despises their lovers
If I look into your eyes,
what will I see, what should I see-
will you be surprised? if I unwind the spools in your pupils,
lay them face up on your office desk like a deck of cards?
No, I will triumph, you do not wear contacts
Even if you did, I would still see the stratus clouds embedded like-
secret crystals reflected through refracted prisms in your smile
The rumor continues: they dream like they are freefalling,
dragging their tender limbs along the clay packed Earth like-
crooked dandelions wresting free of their seeds
The rumor concludes while I collect your thoughts,
in a paper bag and a star sleeps on cold cement steps
in a city that wishes to entomb its light,
darkened in the shadow of a new becoming,
a new brilliance to step over its place
Of course, you have scarred eyes, nuanced sight
When the light leaks from your irises I search for a tissue but,
someone tells me to grab a canvas instead
Murderous love
There is no more in the cold walls of the past.
And who is to blame - the former.
Once, long ago, I asked -
Is the cold in the heart really warmer?
Is it easier without a heart?
Who is to blame for not being together?
Is love really an art?
What's the point of sticking together?
And only traces of tears in the eyes.
She is yours murderous love
This is not eternal power - it is a lie
This is your murderous love.
The cold walls of the past are gone.
Has the game of love ended prematurely?
The question is why there was this chase
For the passion that left us prematurely?
The cold walls of the past no longer exist.
And each, of us on different sides.
We have become different, each of us, an egoist -
The former are now brides.
Here people sit around Clay figure Here people are sitting inside Clay figure
(reprint by ZiN Daily)
*** We are like worms we are like worms We crawl underground * The weather forecast was for Tears instead of rain Nobody is resurrected Dahlias have blossomed In every petal a breath of air In every breath of air God was called by his patronymic They believed in God according to the national Calling a patch of unfortunate land a state a country Ripe apples in the garden Tomato juice through the veins in spring, The weather forecast deceived In spring, bones come down on the grass And nothing happens * Snow leopard in the snow Snow and wool glitter in the snow
The white bird turns into snow And jumps from a height Onto the black earth * The deaf write their songs in white night Because the deaf are sighted
In the black night they rise into the sky And recite loud lines to themselves To not scare Those who are happy (reprint by Quarterly Literary Review Singapore)
*** aluminum birds even they come back from warm countries (reprint by divot)
*** the rebellious spirit in my stomach gurgles and begs for alcohol dog catching snowflakes with tongue christmas all year round easter around the clock
(reprint by A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY)
*** This poem smells blue | | | The color of wrinkles in the sky ¶ Black shapes in clear water ∆ This verse will be picked up by crows in the morning And they will be thrown from heaven On icy concrete heart rocks ~ All in vain .
(reprint by Stone Poetry Journal)
***
The naturalization of hatred
Every day the giant boulders of the brain create little sons to atone for guilt
Are sons resurrected?
The magnolia outside the window blooms expressively quietly, as if guessing something
Anger-dictatorship
I pretend to be a god every morning over a cup of coffee
Stars-blindness
Castrated calm screams in the language of stones
Motherland of life
The taste of faith
Wrath service of the gun
Stone-ruin
Time to change clothes and pick up picks
(reprint by A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY)
***
What do you see
the inner kitten will bring the devils slippers in his teeth in the morning in exchange for
living space with Wi-Fi
what do you see being blind
the sexual joy of a mouse pressed to the floor by a cat’s paw
hate pornography with guts out
sun bunnies devoured by air wolves
What do you see
the deceased son comes every night in a dream in tears and asks to be resurrected
(reprint by A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY)
***
Kira Muratova
The film begins after the ending, when a balding virgin takes off her wig, like a fancy dress costume, and
shoves the wig into a face on the other side of the screen.
Hungry rats need to be fed body parts.
Last but not least, feed with the brain, never with the heart.
In the last turn of people today – it is necessary to make your way. No need to push your way into
people. It is better to try to become a butterfly.
(reprint by A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY)
*** Religion is a hobby club for those who have never died
(reprint by A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY)
*** The secret of the soul Secretion of guilt Who will kiss my neck and turn me into a vampire?
The dream of a soldier who will turn a gun into a sex shop toy
Who will kiss me? Nobody (reprint by A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY)
*** Mosquitoes fly to the scent of blood So are military pilots
(reprint by A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY)
*** There are as many explosions as there are stars in the sky Every night to underground storage and bunkers An alarm siren sounds
Life is wonderful as if it started from an egg and not from a dead chicken
(reprint by A THIN SLICE OF ANXIETY)
*** Copper night knocks On the back of the head, asks: “What street is this?” And this is not a street, This is the whole life.
Here at the age Of 4 I drank sleeping pills, At 14 I lost my virginity, At 24 I lost my family, At 34 my father died (thank God, my father died).
Now I’m free like the cry of a newborn. I’m single, like when I was born. A lonely body without everything Meaningful, invented, composed. The body, by its movement forward, Has reached the very beginning. Ashes close to dust.
And suddenly the night opens its Lunar hood, and now death looks At me with its bony eyes.
“Come on, friend,” I said to death, “I hope you don’t turn me into a zombie.” The door of cast iron milk opened. And I started drinking. My teeth turned black and fell out. Birds pecked out my eyes. My body fell off me. Copper night, Pig-iron milk, golden memory. And suddenly: emptiness. (reprint by Crank)
*** We were stolen at birth and brought into this world. This world has robbed us. Cats will never again sing under the window about their nine lives in the nine circles of hell. We are no longer cats. We are no longer dogs. Only occasionally does one of us like to sit on a leash in puppy latex. We are heavy, sir. We are light, Lord, like fluff. We are airy, Lord, like chitin. We are homeless, Lord, like heaven. We are rich, Lord, like the poorest poor man. We are your angels, Lord. Wash our feet, Lord, we can’t stand you. We love you, Lord, like dogs do. We are on your leash, tied to you, Lord. We are the gods of death in your realm, Lord. Ash. The last candle for your rest in our hearts, Lord. (reprint by Crank)
*** I take a deep breath of spring air after paying for it * And when I left, There were still stars in the sky, But there was no more Earth. * the worm in my body pretends I’m not there
Starting Out
To begin, begin, beginning, beginnings
A nice word, a nice concept
Something we all have experienced
Something we all know.
We start out, we can even start again
Begin, begin again.
It’s the first step, the first mile
First move, first chapter
It’s sunrise, the beginning bell.
We step into it, things are fresh, new
Untested, untried
And yet
We know what comes next
Have lived it in so many forms.
There’s the middle where beginnings
Get to play out, drag on
Can go a number of ways, not just well
As the beginnings might have suggested
Maybe not badly.
Life has taught us that both can happen
And eventually
The sequence fills in, unravels.
There’s that beginning
Then the middle
And, of course, there is inevitably
Like right now
The end.
And Then Some
“Some” is an indefinite word
That is a pleasure to use. Say
I want some of that, and no one
Really knows how much, a sip,
A cup, a pint. They say, take
Some with you and run the risk
Of you taking more that they
Meant. “Some” also works well
In its compound forms. Say, I’ll
Be there sometime, and they will/
Might be waiting, sometime after
Five, sometime after that. It gives
Us such leeway. When I say, I left
It somewhere or someplace, they
Get to know how easily things get
Lost, the somewhere where things
Collect and remain caught in that
Indefinite world that our words can
Create. Somewhere over the rainbow,
The great somewhere, the greater
Somewhen where and when we will
Gather our indefinite, vague selves
And become something more than
The nebulous words we so often use
To cover the ambiguous lives we lead.
Forgettable
To forget, he forgets, I forget the forgotten.
It’s a matter of where it all goes.
The name of the star of that movie. It was
My favorite, but then it’s gone – a name
A whole frame of mind. My watch, my
Wallet – somewhere, distant, close up.
The forgotten are like that, away, gone to
Me. Now that you ask. You ask the author
The king, the kid who carried the story we
All loved, but I don’t remember who or even
When or where. The world we know now is
On its way into that other place, the land of
The forgotten, just slipped my mind. It’s a shuffle
Of the deck, a distraction, a slippery slope, a skip
A drop, a fumble on the five-yard line, a miss,
A mile, a search, an empty minute. Who was it?
Where did they go? When did I do that? What
Was that – the one that should have played out
So easily? Hell, they all/it is the infinitive of that
Guilty party – to forget. The he – who exactly –
Forgets, stumbles a bit, then asks. But, of course
I forget, I forgot. Then there they are, out there
Waiting there for us – all our forgotten.
