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.

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.

Chris Emery

and if we walk to the same sea later
we’ll see something heaving up beside us:
caskets of grey, white-capped, barren and loose,
the way memories are.

T. N. Kennedy

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