That day, my mother shouted
for her girl. I followed her voice
to the end of the house.
My sweat-soaked mother stretched
my stiffened sister on a mat,
pouring a bottle of aporo,
squeezing a shrub of Ata re
into the girl's cold lips.
Many mothers, few fathers came
after the wounded voice
like ants after sugar. They held God's
neck with their lips: the ghost coughed.
Yes! My sister coughed: people are born
once, we know, but she was born twice.
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Issue 72
-
Editor's Note
-
POETRY
- D.M. Aderibigbe
- Sebastian Agudelo
- Bruce Bond
- Fleda Brown
- Nick Conrad
- Ellen Devlin
- Fay Ann Dillof
- Peter Grandbois
- Danielle Hanson
- Mark Heinlein
- Karen Paul Holmes
- David M. Katz
- Laura McCullough
- Michael Montlack
- Aaron J. Poller
- Mike Riello
- Eric Paul Shaffer
- Kenneth Sherman
- Phillip Sterling
- Laura Van Prooyen
- Jeremy Voigt
-
FICTION
Issue > Poetry
Birth
—After Dilruba Ahmed.
Becoming My Mother's Son
The morning sun in the room,
lightened a secret that slipped
out of his drunken pocket.
My mother packed all of her devotion
into two travel bags; she strapped
my little sister to her back
with her gele, tightened her hand
around my wrist like a wristband.
My father fastened his fingers
around my other wrist,
they fought over my life:
he with punches,
my mother with tears.
"Mo fe ba moimi lo," I cried.
My father released my wrist.
I watched him fold the love
he had for me in his right hand,
never to unfold that hand again.
lightened a secret that slipped
out of his drunken pocket.
My mother packed all of her devotion
into two travel bags; she strapped
my little sister to her back
with her gele, tightened her hand
around my wrist like a wristband.
My father fastened his fingers
around my other wrist,
they fought over my life:
he with punches,
my mother with tears.
"Mo fe ba moimi lo," I cried.
My father released my wrist.
I watched him fold the love
he had for me in his right hand,
never to unfold that hand again.