The field has ceased to be lush wonder, from the eyes of a bird I watched them go again and again, horns finding the softness behind fur. Here, what seek for death is been praised. Young boys jump into the air to know the weightlessness of joy. Every year they come here to know death, to know the last sound of a dying animal is a plea for the knife. I looked from above, sending back the spirit of dead animals into the bodies of little boys. We were never too young to know the tongues of kites are beginnings to rituals and when these boys begged to be set free from seeing a horn spill blood on grasses, what do they mean? We all must know death to know the sadness of a grave. …
Romeo Oriogun
The woman on the bar stool knows your body …
There is no light that holds the dead …
My body reaches down into a bottle of gin …
The room smelled of sex, …
We met at a junction, …