This Thing Called Loss
a boy grows tired
of dying again and again.
i am building him a morgue
for Thanksgiving.
there is no room left
in this house untouched —
no hallway, no curtain, no cup —
where dead bodies haven’t curled up to sleep.
even the dolls wear the faces
of those we couldn’t keep.
a panic attack is a dressing room
where the body rehearses
breathlessness like *Adhkār
and in the dead of winter,
heat becomes the only language
you cannot serve at the table
not with the meat, not with the wine.
once I cupped a smile
from a body water,
and learnt that hands
aren’t made to hold water
for long.
*Adhkār, meaning remembrance of Allah(God), is an Islamic practice of reciting specific phrases, verses or supplications to glorify Allah and express gratitude.
Abiodun Salako is a Nigerian journalist and Editor-in-Chief of Curating Chaos. His fractured pieces have appeared in Sledgehammer Lit, LocalTrainMagazine, levatio, Bullshit Lit, EBOQuills, Kalahari Review, African Writer Magazine, Afrocritik, WriteNowLit and elsewhere. He tweets @ i_amseawater.