Arabia. After Aria Aber. The cattle clomp their sore hoofs at the breeze sweeping on their backs, the thorny straps of herder men swinging beyond the road. I do not say destination seems a near house till you see how close you are to the beginning. In the dessert of dreams, I am the body submitting to the ridges of sands, they said the road is a sweet song when you know the eulogy of exile. The woods gather every fragment of rain into the loud cry of crickets, howl of hounds, the still of water as the still of moon. Night is a prayer in exile, with glossy stars that burn into the conscience of men. Arabia, I spite nothing, we parted for peace & reunion for war, you said the hand that pushed us into darkness is our revenge in light. I blend into your bath, water sings me clean, your guilt are little boys bearing large headdress, seizing my time to advertise melted candies. Arabia, we are humble supplicants, you teach my hands the hold of God’s body. Every Inshallah is the resurrection of dead hopes. Arabia, what is my luxury when my silence is all I choose over roasted Madfoons? What shivering burns between my lips? You offer a coach, a pocket sized Adkar, a room turned into music by late night horns & when mother calls, I gossip of your indulgence for colors & the cold of your Zamzam. I speak true of castles in sands, & bellies filled with ice of your tea. Arabia, I pray for you, I do not pray for my restlessness. Pink lines. the cackle tells the hen has succeeded over birth, a pack of heads cheers out, we are celebrating the death of fireworks, the rest of the street kids’ screech. i wish for the loss of harmattan, the asters, little daisies of the patch now becoming dust- brown, spreading towards the old house the boys refuse to repaint their gods. i soak the last of my tea, you said it’s lite, the neighbor flaunting their new speakers with common folksongs. i do not say my comfort is silence, the dragonflies burning the wings of daylight. two-year old berl thinks the speed light a gun, we laugh our realizations. i trim my nails, the tips like blunt razors. we are weekend sitters, your hands dissolve time with video games, the cctv carrying the back of our heads as if we are different, i search the room, it’s only us, camera flicks how photogenic our solitude looks, brie melting in the potbelly, you tickle me of my shame, i scramble to nurse the plants, you ask what the test result was, i do not say back to you. darling, in my dream, it’s you who is a child's father, & me, pulling the pram into a city of mums.
About the Author:
Born on a Friday in December, Fatihah Quadri Eniola is a young Nigerian Poet. Her work has appeared in literary journals like Brittle paper, Rigorous, ice floe, The Shallow Tales Review and elsewhere. She is a nyctophobic and lives with a very cute cat, Honiy. She is also an active fellow on Twitter: @FatihahQuadri
*Feature image by PixelAnarchy from Pixabay
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