Yellow Dress.
The soft tick-tick of the clock-thing is everywhere. It stopped when Mother went out with Father about two evenings ago, when the sun was a huge red cotton ball disappearing into the corner of the streets.
Ode to a Black Bo(d)y.
& here’s to you. & your kinsmen. Those who, having arrived the shores—half-naked; poured onto the sands. Spirits unbridled. Skins glistening with the wetness of the ocean within them.
These Walls.
I tell you, these walls knew about the war long before it broke out. It was revealed in a dream that Gowon had—a dream of cattle standing on their hind limbs, snatching whips from
Diglossia.
This was exactly how babel happened. god, watching how men desecrate the sky with filthy bodies, sweaty gums, unriddled courage. god, listening to the mouths…
Death is a singer at night.
Once we hear their ruckus, we abandon our journey and perch on the electric wires. Some of us settle on the tree branches in front of the market, our vision entangled with leaves.
The Elephant in the room does not wait.
A thousand words have been spoken, yet none speaks of what’s in plain sight. Every word hangs above in distant air, in a zigzag dance, avoiding the truth.
Above and beyond.
I bite down the urge to cry as I proceed towards the train. I remind myself again that I must not cry, even as a thick wave of emotion seizes me again and sends me spiralling
Attached—unintentional & other poems.
It is August & the city is still lonely, still grieving its loss. I am here—here, where innocence is a synonym for sin. I am here—at sarkin pawa street,
My Land is a Cruel Poet.
I am not sure if I’ve ever written of my country. Maybe because she had written me with a shaky hand like a poet drunk with cognac and departed love.
Countertransference and other poems.
In a pub/ the wind/ blowing the smoke of cigarettes alive dances through our aches/ it has been keeping off this dusty room for us/ or perhaps