i stopped hearing the sound of ghouls
whispering through the night.
no longer saw dark silhouettes
shape-shifting on the walls.
do you remember, how I’d rollover
into the nirvana of your arms
whenever someone we knew died?
& you’d wrap me like a Christmas gift.
now i curl into myself like a snail in its rind;
my heart palms into a knot of grief.
i have watched days sprawl into years,
spent nights reliving how you waned into
dust, leaving not a speck in the air
staring through the dark of night,
i wonder why death goes picking flowers
before they learn what it means to bloom.
i roll over on the bed longing for late-night talks,
my legs crashing into your bed space
stirring the abyss you left behind.
sometimes i gaze into the eyes of the skies—
light-years away from me, hoping you’d appear,
at least to sweep off this giant fog
wheeling in my head. i realize
you are now but a wisp of wind
our past— a garland of withered roses.
Rahma O. Jimoh
Rahma O. Jimoh is a writer and nature photog. She is an Hues Foundation scholar and a Pushcart Prize Nominee. A lover of sunsets and monuments. She has been published or forthcoming in Kalahari Review, Lucent Dreaming, Olongo Africa & others. She is the Poetry Editor for The Quills and a Poetry Reader at Chestnut Review.
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