Amnesia as First Aid Kit
grandpa’s lips are always moving, praying.
panting after silence. he says breathing is
a type of hunger; he is tired
of its pangs & sits facing the window, daily
waiting his turn. last of his friends,
he speaks only to angels now. at a funeral,
he lifted hands when the priest, with sarcasm said, who’s next?
grief will do that to you.
the year I lost Tessy—my dog—I became a cat person. amnesia
is how we handle loss in this house…
death is a type of amnesiac spell,
I crave it too grandpa.
Pamilerin Jacob is a Nigerian poet & mental health enthusiast. His poem was shortlisted for the Ken Egba Prize For Festival Poetry 2017. Author of Memoir of Crushed Petals (2018), Gospels of Depression (2019) & Paper Planes in the Rain (Co-authored, 2019); he is a staunch believer in the powers of critical thinking, Khalil Gibran’s poetry & chocolate ice cream. Reach him on Twitter @pamilerinjacob
THERE ARE STILL NO WORDS TO MAKE UP FOR LOST TIME
Every slight in the wind will turn the city
Another shade of our re/[-]/mind. For now
There are fragments, going all the way back
To that of that sky, and that when the wings,
And those when the scream, and that how —
How uneventful; to remember so much.
Imagine what we have done [we will do] with our unfinished memories.
Michelle K. Angwenyi @mkangwenyi is a writer from Nairobi, Kenya. She blogs at notjustwiththelions.wordpress.com.
The boardwalks here ending midsentence
i.
The way the thing is kept moist, sluiced, sliced, the way it knows only itself. Makes reference to only itself. This won’t be without consequence. Quiet down now, there is a woman making her way artistically through the aisle
Affected systems as follow: pupil, gut, salivary glands, adrenal gland (responsible for rapid liberation of adrenaline into blood), liver, spleen, genitalia, the muscular system. Art is always happening
A body that cannot sink into the Alberta badland is the body unwinding the cowl—you took the cloth, laid out the church offering box, shook it a little
Sunflower, maize, shortgrass in fall—the woman has lain her cheek against the floor. New critics, gender performance, affects of faith: the concerto was just for the savior
Continue reading “A poem by Erin Russell”
Musings from a ward
BURNING HOUSE PRESS 