Tag: international

Two Poems by Erinola E. Daranijo

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gone boy

How the word stands like an inverted igi,
a refusal to obey the laws that birthed it.
Or is it a proper igi with its top
chopped off? All my life I’ve wondered
if my brain’s inverted, improper, asterisked
with defects. Be honest bro, you straight ọkọ
or bent òpò? Bent like a branch or straight
like a trunk? Like a man? You like men?
Mama said don’t stand slanted òwò like a girl.
Òwò like kí. Not proper. A man’s spine
should be trunk-strong. Once, after a fight,
she sat me down with a cup of tea.
Tell me you’re not like those defective men.
I looked her straight in the eye and lied.

Glossary:
igi: tree
ọkọ: straight
òpò: bent
òwò: crooked
kí: crooked

*

going through my notes app, i am reminded of all the boys i once loved

My màmá wouldn’t let me go to the village square
when I was younger, so I jet off with my babe
on his okada to a Fela Kuti song. It’s in our cosmology
to chase the tails of goats over the hills.
The sky stretches, map of strange stars.
I list the star signs of my exes, none of them
from my village. We cheers our palm wine.
Almost all sacred things are blue. Baby blue,
Baby blue. You joke that you’ll never date a city boy,
eh, you sing a love song to natural hair and midnight
eyes. The compass needle stays glued to the moon.
I catch your eyes in every mirror.
There was once a prehistoric river all around us,
even crocodiles. We puff out
the great swimming shapes
of their bodies.
This layer of rock, ancient fossils.
This layer, some ancient eel. How small we are,
how funny. Massive fish-ghosts
vibrate to Fela Kuti. Time is read backwards
in the rock-body: oldest to the top, magma pushing
what’s fresh to the surface. Your hand
skims the deep blue
sandstone, these long-cooled shells.
Tear drop, turquoise sliver of horizon, the creeping river
invisible in the dark. Here’s to you,
here’s to you, ancient and alive.
The sky stretches, full of old and older ghosts,
our once and forever wading pool.

*

Erinola E. Daranijo (he/him) is a Nigerian writer. He is the Editor-in-Chief of Akéwì Magazine, and the author of the micro-chapbooks, ‘An Epiphany of Roses’ (Konya Shamsrumi Press, 2024) and ‘Every Path Leads to the Sea’ (Ghost City Press, 2024). He splits his time between the ‘cities’ of Ibadan, Lagos, and Cape Town. Say hi on X (formerly Twitter) at @Layworks.

Lost by Allison Thung

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Lost

I

Find my hand
in a crowd like
cold, running water
finds a paper cut
so minute it is
unfelt until
unforgotten.

II

If every over-
shoulder glance
only furthers
and shrinks you,
then the only
way to keep you
close and larger
than life is to
never look back;
only inward.

III

My fingertips
yellow in cold
or under stress.
The doctor
agrees it’s likely
Raynaud’s. The
doctor will not
agree it’s also
my grip
on the past.

IV

After a bout
in the sun,
your face is a
constellation,
every now-
distinct mole
and freckle
guiding me
home to
safety.

*

Allison Thung is a Singaporean poet and project manager. She is the author of Reacquaint (kith books, 2024) and the forthcoming Things I can only say in poems about/to an unspecified ‘you’ (Hem Press, 2025). Her poetry has been published in ANMLY, Heavy Feather Review, Cease, Cows, The Daily Drunk, and elsewhere, and nominated for Best of the Net, Best Microfiction, and Best Small Fictions. Allison reads poetry for ANMLY. Find her on Twitter and Instagram @poetrybyallison, or at www.allisonthung.com.

First Date by Mariana Llanos

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First Date

It was just a first date–
two nervous strangers meeting for the first time.
The place was full, I think,
but I can’t clearly remember
‘cause I couldn’t take my gaze off of you.
And I don’t know exactly what drew me into you.
Perhaps the singsong of your country accent,
or your stories and mischievous smile,
or your blunt sincerity, almost as if
you couldn’t stop the truth from shooting
out of your mouth.
We didn’t eat much
–you had a beer, I munched on sweet potato fries–
and we left
to saunter under the stars on a calm and unusually pleasant
early November night.
We chatted lively,
like two people who had a lot to share
and even more to learn from each other.
You asked, “What do you miss most about
not being single?”
I thought for a brief moment because I had a long list,
but I only said, “I miss the company. Watching TV with someone.”
You smiled like you knew I was keeping some things to myself.
“And you?”
“I miss waiting,” you said.
“Outside the mall, while she’s out shopping.
Just sitting down, and waiting.”
And time went by unhurriedly,
and there was much more to say, but it was late.
We strolled toward our cars and you held my hand–
my heart pumped faster but you didn’t notice.
You showed me your truck while you told me
more work stories.
Then you walked me to my car
and as I searched for my keys
–I really didn’t want to leave–,
you bent down, and pressed
your lips on mine.
And I didn’t care about passersby, or the time,
or that I never kiss on the first date,
because I wanted your lips too.

When we talked the next day
I could feel you smiling even without seeing you
or perhaps it was me who beamed for both of us.
And there was that awkward moment
when you don’t know what the other person is thinking
or if anything each of us felt was reciprocated.
But you dared and said, “I wanted you to kiss me on my truck.”
A wave of desire engulfed my skin.
“I wanted you to kiss me longer,” I said.

And at that moment,
I knew that I had known you for a long time.

*

Mariana Llanos is a Peruvian born writer and poet. Her poetry has been included in independent journals and in Poetry Magazine Young People’s Edition. She is a recipient of a Pura Belpré Honor for her children´s book Benita y las criaturas nocturnas. She lives in Oklahoma.

Conversations with my uber-driver by Lydia la Grange

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Conversations with my uber-driver

The slightly scratched Toyota pulls up to my house
I wave to the driver: a young black man, with an easy smile.
As I get in, I notice the isiphandla, a band of animal skin
hanging from his rear-view mirror.
So, I greet him in Zulu:
“Sawubona”
(Knowing I probably butchered the pronunciation
even though I’ve lived in South-Africa all my life.)
He repeats the word and we start driving.

He asks about my life and I ask about his.
He tells me that he is working for a hotel-chain
Ubering on the side, to support his family.
He used to study electrical engineering after getting a scholarship,
but had to work and ended up dropping out.
He says all this, without any hint of self-pity or regret,
as if he never expected more from life.

I ask if he wants to go back to university one day.
He replies that he probably won’t be able to,
but hopes to do a math-course and become a tutor
since he used to help tutor his friends in school and enjoyed it.

We arrive at my destination. I thank him and leave.
I wonder at the unfairness of it all:
This young man, with his positivity and intelligence
has had to give up on a dream
just because he was born on the wrong side of Apartheid.
(which lives on 30-years after it was ended)
And I have everything I need in life
just because I wasn’t.

*

Lydia la Grange is a South-African poet and playwright. Her work includes: Afskeid ‘n Musiekblyspel, Liewe Anna and F-Woord. She has published poems in Die Helpie Flitse and has had slam poems performed at the National Eisteddfod Academy’s national competition.