Today’s choice
Previous poems
Abiodun Salako
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.
Damaris West
In the circle
of its trees
the lochan shines
midnight silk.
B. Anne Adriaens
symptoms she is aggregate concrete and grit held together in a human shape lying on her side knees drawn up flesh tensing to stone and tendons in flames the weight of her body pressed into the mattress leaves a shallow hollow once she’s gone a...
Martin Potter
glimmer blades
the field’s lightly fogged
grass green
Moira McPartlin
Outside the Berber tent
the poet and I contemplate
the boundless Sahara sky.
Matthew James Friday
We totem our empires with the raptor,
weave into flags, fix on coins
but what of the victims?
How come no one ever glories the fish . . .
Ansuya Patel
Think what it must have been like for her
fasting from sunrise to moonrise, to wake up
three hours before dawn, bathe, apply sindoor
on the parting of her hair line . . .
Chris Beckett
Zerihun drove him over the dead-cow hills and Bob’s long hair stood up with shock at what he saw.
Angela France
Driving into low cloud everything fades
to a blur, all colour and definition leached
David Van-Cauter
Two calls this morning – flood of tears…
She cannot eat a single thing they give her.