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Nov 152012
 

by  Agholor Leonard Obiaderi

 

Your forehead is sculptured

into ridges, eyebrows

converge in wings

like  a bird. Your face

 

 pictures you trying hard to

recall how your moon transformed

into eight phases of fog.

 

Monday;

you punched my ribs. I only

 came to collect the garbage.

Nowadays, you forget even

 your own instructions.

 

Tuesday;

the  cleaning woman departs,

a washrag of tears. She is

your fifth in a year. I cannot

rescue you from these darkened

 craters

when your eclipse descends.

 

Wednesday;

 your neighbours explain to

 the cops why we both have

round foreheads and high cheek-bones.

I am your name you

 no longer remember.

 

Thursday;

 dusk blossoms into

 its phase of blood again. You

 recall my face briefly then

mirrors veil your eyes.

 

Friday;

grows a forked tongue. I am

torn between finding a  refuge

for you and leaving

 you in the grey

place

where you no longer remember

 my name.