THREE POEMS

By Abdulrazaq Salihu

                       Photo Credit: Healthline

OVERHAUL

Groping before the sands for the carcasses, I fear death. We do,

Just deeper than the way you would see. I came here

To carry the body but missed a heartbeat. Is there 

A better way to grief the dead that you couldn’t save.

The mind is able to hold a broken snapshot over here,

Unless your carry the night in fire.This is how it works:

The mirror is opaque and devoid of color. I only wish 

To see the face of that which doesn’t die.I’m yearning 

To heal and restore my image but this is not the place.

I’m envious of the dog, who can lick the wound so easily.

All we see are scars and faces in the bustling town.

On some nights we can swallow the head-fights,

If the moon is full.  I was born on the day the moon was full,

By the edge of the clouds, rearranging the stars and colors

And being body-god. Time is a patterned recollection of pain.

Death is  a careful recollection of snapshots. The broken clay pots

Are grave-signs. I’m a piece of fire, polishing the skin of 

The people that sought to know little about restoration.

                                                               

VAGABOND

My home is not a place to breathe 

It’s this contrived murder against the purple bandoliers of men

And the places they have known.

The wilderness in the eyes of the roads,

As in between your thigh      Us trespassing on the water’s face

Wired in one—a connection of mutual understanding of grief.

Daring to drown by the sands , we know many ways to burn a home,

Us ourselves, our prayers and love. Us, kicking back the broken days

With these people, these scattered  people 

That are my family. On wishing our home is a place we did not 

Abandon in the middle of the blooming of a wild flower because 

We knew nothing of carrying a home in the chest, We were carrying 

Our bodies to everyplace to breathe, as the president would.

A home is the headquarters of a school of fish  curling the waters.

In Sarkin Pawa, crows  are most times mistaken for gunshots

And its passionate ability to wipe out a home .

But we all go round    We break the tunes of the silent night and nothing is holy

Passing the stumps of our grief to the broken war-men

Because where there’s people   The plural form of survivors; victors

Fully aware; the only thing they won, is surviving the last attack.

Roads and insecurity have many things in common: the way they 

Bend the heels of people searching for places to call home.

Man is the piece of light that survived the downpour of bullets 

Man is the petal of holy,  slowly loosing their mind

Homes and bullets have many things in common,

If it’s the color of Vagabond-gene in me,

Then praises to all the lost breath       Glory be to harbor in roads.

                                                             

UNRAVELING

Walls; old

A bone holds us—

A slim particle of dusted notebooks 

And journals of psyche and coal

Forming a bacteria beside my feet

Sepia, frozen bodies, blank frayed shimmers,

Cupboards held in suspense,

A calendar has built a hall of fame,

Your name,  ours, family tree all present in this present,

A mice and a clay pot have bonded so well

So well, all walls must mend their broken bodies 

This, all the stitches, loose

All the sketches, let loose

All the silhouette,them let loose 

All the stained wallpapers, let them loose

All our portraits and mirages, May we let this 

Too

Open up before the nights heavy skin

                                                                      

Abdulrazaq Salihu is a teen author and an award winning poet, essayist, spoken word artist and novelist. He’s a member of the hilltop creative arts foundation and is published nationally and internationally.