Poetry

Abiodun Salako: After the Demise of a Certain Venus

Image by ggallant from Pixabay (modified)

AFTER THE DEMISE OF A CERTAIN VENUS

& today you said/ all that remains of the fire you had for me is a tiny flake of ash
not enough to be absorbed by earth or wet by water

& you said you don’t love me anymore/ or dream of loving strawberry which was
your favourite thing/ and crave for pepper soup which softened your nose into water

& you said you are tired of painting/ on my body/ that all the watercolour you used
had washed away/ that you cannot trace your hands back to the history of my eyes/ lips/years of geographical bones earthquaked

& you whispered me away like the dying sigh of a kettle/ there is no remnant of me on your chin/ like the aftermath of spaghetti again

& you analyse how your own body forgot how I have ever sat in it/ how I have moved those boulders too heavy for Jesus when visiting/ & today after yesterday’s this day/ you send me a pigeon saying you treasure me/ but aren’t treasures meant to be polished and kept

& there are very few things that when dropped do not break on the outside/ I am one of them.
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Poem © Abiodun Salako
Image by ggallant from Pixabay (modified)

About the author

Abiodun Salako

Abiodun Salako is a Nigerian Broadcaster & Copywriter. In his spare time, he daydreams of Eden. His poems have appeared in Africanwriter, WriteNowLit, Dwarts, ThespeakingHeart, LocalTrainMag, SledgehammerLit and elsewhere. He writes from Lagos, Nigeria. Say cheerio to him on twitter @i_amseawater and IG @Iam_seawater.

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