A BURNING FURNACE & A LARGE MOUTH
By Sunday T. Saheed
my eyes itch, & my throat
burns. I didn’t want to say that this
earth I dwell in is a burning furnace
that gulps up dreams, kids & women.
I once stretched my hands forth
& hoped that the soft wind would tickle
them, until my heart is no longer
like the lines on my palms
—straight, curved, scattered.
but even the wind is wild
it feeds from my hands, & they drip
blood of despondency. Is my country
now a mouth that gulps
in everything sweet?
don’t curse the president’s daughter
or itch your heads at night.
everyone is watching & nobody is.
—not until your head is sought for, &
the rotten mouth too.
my tongue is a burning fire,
that speaks under the shade of the night
& hopes that nobody will zip me up.
those prayers I offered, & the libations
too. God doesn’t sleep, or they said He
doesn’t. But the files of prayers I send to
Him gets changed every time. My prayers
—beneath the land I stand on.
Are the archangels ravenous of my prayers too?
or why else do my prayers get torn
& the shards of it, dropped right back at me?
my eyes itch, & my throat
burns. I didn’t want to say that this
earth I dwell in is a burning furnace
that gulps up dreams, kids & women.
I once stretched my hands forth
& hoped that the soft wind would tickle
them, until my heart is no longer
like the lines on my palms
—straight, curved, scattered.
but even the wind is wild
it feeds from my hands, & they drip
blood of despondency. Is my country
now a mouth that gulps
in everything sweet?
don’t curse the president’s daughter
or itch your heads at night.
everyone is watching & nobody is.
—not until your head is sought for, &
the rotten mouth too.
my tongue is a burning fire,
that speaks under the shade of the night
& hopes that nobody will zip me up.
those prayers I offered, & the libations
too. God doesn’t sleep, or they said He
doesn’t. But the files of prayers I send to
Him gets changed every time. My prayers
—beneath the land I stand on.
Are the archangels ravenous of my prayers too?
or why else do my prayers get torn
& the shards of it, dropped right back at me?
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BIO:
Sunday T. Saheed, Author of Rewrite The Stars, is a 17-yr-old Nigerian writer and a Hilltop Creative Arts Foundation member. He was the 1st runner-up for the Nigerian Prize for Teen Authors, 2021. His works have appeared or are forthcoming on Rough Cut Press, Arts Lounge, Rigorous mag, Kissing Dynamite, Beatnik Cowboy, Trouvaille Review, Augment Review, Spirited Muse Press, Gyroscope, Giallo Lit, Open Skies Quarterly, Kalahari, Cajun Mutt, Open Leaf Press Review, Re Side, de Curated and others. He was a finalist for the Wole Soyinka International Cultural Exchange, 2018. |
