‘Saxophone’ by Hussain Ahmed

at the end of the century before the last
our gods were ferried away in an ark that reeks
of our brother’s blood they left us to worship
the empty shrine, with no one to call onto when
another chicken got missing
my grandfather looks younger without
his glasses, but he trusted the pair, more
than any of our scientific scriptures of how
he would live longer without cigarette. before
morning prayers he bites on fried chicken wings like someone
lucky to attend his own funeral
weeks before his death
fifty percent of everything he says while he sleeps
comes true,
sleep is anesthesia for the wounded
I made funeral songs out of my father’s organs
I finger the rosary like a child learning to tuck under his teeth
the urge to run
when he does not know to walk
without wobbling
the keys rust, we lost our tongues when they were away.

From issue #6: spring/summer 2018

About the Author
Hussain Ahmed is a Nigerian writer and environmentalist. His poems are featured or forthcoming in Puerto del Sol, Prairie Schooner and elsewhere.