We are pleased to present our next Poet to Notice: Ivan Ndoma-Egba
We hope you enjoy these 5 poems as much as we did.

When the tap runs brown

you learn to boil silence
you learn to stretch fire
you learn that brown water
still holds reflection
and even your shadow
needs to drink
your mother names each bucket
like saints
this one for washing
this one for cooking
this one for prayers
that never leave the kitchen
the tap squeals like it’s afraid
like it knows it has nothing left to give
you learn the rhythm of scarcity
a kind of music
that lives in tin bowls
and blistered palms
you scrub stories into the floor
like dirt is the only witness
you whisper to spoons
because they don’t ask why
they just hold what they’re given
you wait for rain
like it’s a guest that forgot your name
but still might show up
dripping with apology

~~~

The birds don’t sing here

the birds don’t sing here
they cough
like men too proud to stop smoking
even after the last lung gave in
they land on roofs
with rust in their feathers
peck at crumbs shaped like forgiveness
then disappear
like my father’s name
in conversations we don’t start anymore
every morning i hear them
arguing with the wind
dragging pieces of sky
like unpaid rent
they build nests from shoelaces
plastic bags
and newspaper lies
i once saw one tear a page from the bible
stuff it between sticks
like even they know
some things must be kept warm
they don’t fly south
just circle the same street
like they too
forgot how to leave

~~~

We Don’t Say ‘I Love You’ in My Language

We don’t say “I love you”—
not like that.
Not like the movies,
not like sweet nothings whispered in soft light.
In my house, love was a slow dance—
the smell of yam frying at dawn,
the creak of tired floors,
the way she’d pull her shawl tighter
when the wind howled through cracked windows.
“Ọ̀rọ̀ ìfẹ́ kì í sọ̀rọ̀” —
Love doesn’t speak—
it moves like a ghost,
a shadow behind every sigh.
I remember the days
she stayed silent,
watching me fall,
never a word of praise or pain,
but her hands—oh, her hands..
they built me back
like broken pottery
glued with patience
and the grit of a thousand unshed tears.
“Mo fẹ́ràn rẹ,”
She never said it,
but every scar on her palm
was a love letter etched in flesh.
Love was the weight of her silence
when my heart cracked open,
the heavy door she never slammed,
the meal waiting
even when the house was empty.
In my language,
love is sweat on a brow,
the quiet standing by when storms rage,
the fierce, stubborn fire
burning in the dark.
No “I love you”—just the rhythm
of ancestors’ voices,
telling me,
without words,
that love is enough
even when silent.
So I carry this language,
this quiet roar,
a promise made in shadow…
that even if we don’t say it,
we live it,
we bleed it,
we never forget it.

~~~

If Grief Had Wi-Fi

If grief had Wi-Fi,
would it buffer?
Would it pause on a blue screen,
freeze-frame on heartbreak?
Would it update its status—
“Currently mourning, BRB”?
Scroll down for condolences,
likes from strangers,
hearts that flicker
but never quite catch fire.
Would grief send read receipts,
leave you hanging on “Seen”?
Would sorrow slide
into your DMs,
ghost you
with silence thicker than pain?
If grief had Wi-Fi,
would it be viral?
A trending hashtag—

MissYouForever,

GoneButNotForgotten,

but only for a moment,
before the feed moves on?
Would it glitch in the middle of tears,
cutting out when you need it most?
Would it be a selfie
with a broken smile,
filtered pain
masked in emojis?
If grief had Wi-Fi,
would you disconnect
to really feel?
Or would you keep refreshing
hoping for a sign,
a message,
a signal—
anything but silence?
Because grief doesn’t tweet.
It doesn’t post.
It sits heavy,
offline,
where no one can like it,
no one can share it,
no one can scroll past.
So unplug your sorrow—
feel it in the quiet,
in the messy,
in the raw.
Because grief
isn’t a status update.
It’s the longest story
you’ll never upload.

~~~

This Poem Is What I Meant to Say

i didn’t say it when i should’ve
kept rewriting the moment in my head
until the memory got tired of me
but this
this poem
is what i meant to say
not in neat paragraphs
not in clean forgiveness
not in that calm voice i practiced
just like this—
barefoot
breathless
all heart no armor
i meant to say
i was scared
i was trying
i didn’t know how to hold joy
without squeezing it too tight
like it would run if i didn’t
and maybe it did
i meant to say
it mattered
you mattered
the silence mattered too
even the parts that hurt like truth
before it had words
this poem
is the last voicemail i never left
the message you never opened
the final draft
after a thousand torn pages
it is me
standing still
for once
without hiding
without flinching
and maybe you won’t hear it
maybe no one will
but i wrote it
i said it
and that
is enough