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.
Steph Morris
No way would they let him keep that tag. They saw
a boy they must rename, must mark
from them, a boy whose limbs folded far too gently,
Eryn McDonald
It is here that the day breaks apart
Like ice on frustrated frozen pond
Here in the grounds of Ashton Court
I wish to bury myself amongst the green
Gordan Struić
Outside,
the city slides by,
blurred lines
of glass and rain.
Stephen Keeler
The days were huge and kind
and sometimes after school
we’d buy a bag of broken biscuits
for the long walk home
across the heavy heat of afternoon
on lucky days she wouldn’t take
the pennies offered up in supplication
Joseph Blythe
I swear I felt the swirly patterned paper
rip from the walls of my childhood bedroom.
It was the same stained cream shade as my skin –
pockmarked, cut and scabbed, dry and peeling…..
Denise Bundred
Shadowed boats bereft of sail
absorb the surge and slap
constrained by a blue-grey chink
of mooring chains.
Rahma O. Jimoh
A bird skirts across the fence
& I rush to the window
to behold its flapping wings—
It’s been ages
since I last saw a bird.
Samuel A. Adeyemi
I can already hear the chorus of my tribe.
They want the ancient blade,
the guillotine that hovered
above my head like a halo of death.
Mofiyinfoluwa O.
when you
know that your time with someone has almost run out, that is what you do. you look for
tiny things buried in the sand so that you do not have to look at the huge broken thing
standing between you both.