Poemify Magazine Issue III

POEMIFY MAGAZINE ISSUE III: 2 POEMS BY SA’ID SA’AD ABUBAKAR

The morning that a stranger jumped into my wife’s bathtub I was buried in the pages of a blank journal & Microsoft PowerPoint.

I WAS BUSY WHEN A STRANGER JUMPED INTO MY WIFE’S BATHTUB

The morning that a stranger jumped into my wife’s bathtub I was buried
in the pages of a blank journal & Microsoft PowerPoint.

Pages of my skin were graffiti of a clockwise 12 hours job, a hard earned survival driveway
for my smiling wife to smile again in her bathtub, even after
her soft homegrown skin brush shoulder with a stranger, in warm water

when the stranger falls into my wife’s bathtub
she was soaked in a foam & bubbles to scrap away merciless loneliness dirt & inhale
new graveyard of caring luxuries.
& she said her body was well soaked. Wet and naked – resurrecting
memories of the last time my hands walk across them. The last time I buried my face in the line between her chest was a history she couldn’t recall

& i was told that that stranger flew from the window, a secret open-door he knew was wide open to
accommodate him. Even when she screamed, I could hear her voice from the four mouths of
the four walls. But like a cotton puffed into my ears,
every system in my body conspired to pin me down in my seat.
So I watch, hanging a really busy identity card around my neck. Actually, I was busy.

So I watched a stranger bath in my wife’s bathtub while she was in – paddling like a canoe and the
foam and bubbles were fans that cheered his Olympic adventure.
When he jumped at first, she called for help. And when he jumped again
they bath together.

After they were done, I watched him walk out with my wife through the sitting room on my laptop screen
with foam in my wife’s ears and sorry’s on his lips.

NAY, OUR HEARTS DO NOT RIDE HORSES

It was just wings you see, easy to soar, easy to roar. Check them well, they are pieces of air.
& even if you try wear them as gloves, luck will never be by your side. For lucks are meant
to be for those who walk on highways eyes closed. With heart opened, to something as big
as passion and small as laughter wrapped around a ‘heart mastery’ text message. Something
dying for, like risk. Even if it’s little as placing your feet to measure the depth of your smile.
When you said your heart ride horses, I smiled and checked if the horse has its four legs.

Your heart do not know how to ride horses. Even if it does, how will it feed to survive? For
horses are beings and your heart has long ago ceased working. Has lost all its characteristics
of living things to the weight of the earth. Ever seen the cold wrestling of the living & the
death, a cold war with arena built in your heart? Maybe you have, but be sure a life goes
for a life. Remember the heart is a cold coffee in a mug. Plain! Sometimes drive the heart
and let it follow. Google map is a good way to run away from your destination when you are lost.

Uche Njie

Do not say our hearts ride horses. Nay, our hearts do not ride horses. They ride bikes, and when they do, they often fall.

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Poemify Magazine Issue III

POEMIFY MAGAZINE ISSUE III: BEFORE MY PRIME BY SALAM ADEJOKE

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POEMIFY MAGAZINE ISSUE III: 1 POEM BY DR. EKTA RANA

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