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.

Opeyemi Oluwayomi

They are piercing knife between
the city, detaching the body from the head,
& squeezing the blood out of the flesh,
so there can be an end to what hasn’t begun.

Rhian Thomas

I sit to fumble some intrusion from my shoe.
A shard of stone, no bigger than a thought, its ridged face
cutting like some old lover, like a baby or
an old preacher drumming something that irks like a worn out song

Erwin Arroyo Pérez

Here, in my Manhattan room / insomnia tugs at me like a half-closed taxi door / letting all the echoes in
/ an ambulance carries the last breath of an asthmatic man