Songs of Anisha
And a father. A brother and a sister to
Play with. I have her brown hair and brown
Eyes. I have inherited both her sadness
And her rage. I do not garden. That’s
Where I’ve drawn the line. I do not
Have green fingers. I do not cook. I do
Not bake. I visited from college. Was
Greeted with breakfast when I got off
The bus. Cleaned, washed and dried off the
Tomato sauce flowers off my plate.
“The Watchman’s Gate,”
by Obakanse S. Lakanse
Here at the gate reside all the novelties of the dark, and a poet’s dated ego
Which isolate one like stone.
Nothing happens here as me; I am constantly happening in my insides
And so I find myself now and then taking long reflective strolls
Round the place, and sometimes straying into continents of anthills
Or watching certain horizons rise and flicker above a cityful of fools
There is always some new thought gained here that lingers ringing in the skull
There’s always some bright apparition that flares into the dull null
Of long relentless afternoons.
Omens proliferate, and whirlwinds weave their shadows round the hills
One should not grow affectionate with punishing storms
Neither should one make a sigh of a true whirlwind
At any rate nothing endures any more, save your logical indifference
And the cadences of rainfall that bear no oral shapes.
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