ELOCUTIO
by Olaitan Junaid
First Runner-up of the 2021 Kreative Diadem Annual Creative Writing Contest (Poetry Category)
depending on // how // it is handled // a poem //
could be // a knife // like a toddler // with boobs //
i handle my grief // so gingerly // it knows not //
to spill // in my wildest dreams // everyone // runs //
away from me // says // i hold onto grief // so close //
i sometimes forget // to hold // myself // often //
i wake // to the bleating of // bukhatir’s last breath // &
even though // this poem // isn’t about // my mother //
everything // here // pretends // to be alive // alhamdulillah //
it’s juma’ah // & i want to tell a story // without //
the grave // i want to tell a story // where // the void //
between us // maintains // just as void // never as //
the strange woman or // the boy // my father’s with //
a new // wife // & i, a brother // to love // & why //
does my mother keep // ghosting back // to me // whole
as secrets // anyone around // to love her back // & why //
won’t she // just // live happily // ever after //
it’s the semester’s end // alhamdulillah // next weekend //
i’ll be sleeping // all through // the one after //
i’ll be lost // someplace // with no one // to // find me //
forgive me // mother // i keep // pretending // nothing dies //
here // forgive me // mother // i keep pretending // there isn’t //
any silence // in this poem // even when // the closest //
i’ve come // to joy // is // finger // thru it // to be honest //
i want to believe // grief isn’t bilingual // but o, i keep screaming
& screaming // subhanallah // when a termite bites // & now //
my tongue // is lost // to grief’s brutal dialect // & when //
i mean to sing // i shed // once // or twice in response // to prayer //
i screamed // asẹ́ // when i only meant // to amen // àṣẹ // & again
// everything i love // sieves // through me // the ones //
less porous // & wouldn’t let go // keeps falling&falling // like //
luck // o, lord, speak to me // of grace immeasurable // & i’ll tell
of my friend // who’s barely twenty-four // & hypertensive // & dying
// & soon // she’ll begin // to fork // through drugs // to stay alive //
& soon // she’ll be too busy // arranging what’s left // of her body // into //
a collage // of memories // that we may hold // on to // & soon //
she’ll be too tired // to stir fries // to say // hey // old friend //
how many dreams // have you survived // today // & soon //
i’ll mistake her for my mother // a tired beauty // only that // come
tomorrow // she’ll be home // sleeping // her lover // still hers //
watching // she won’t be dying // too soon.