No One Wants to Write an Elegy
The disposition of the grave
like an open
mouth.
Cut is the stalk
that might have grown fully
straight. We trample
dew-wet grasses finely latticed with day-old
spider webs. No one
wants to write an elegy.
The cruelty of sweet-smelling
earth, the wet thump as it splashes
off the shovels.
And already there is nothing left to see.
As evening comes birds go quietly
into the dark. Relatives fill up
the gaping rooms. We sit
around the hearth, watching
the flames lick up mounds of
dry sugarcane pulp. And the old women
cover the silence with their weeping.
Contributor’s Bio
Ridwan Badamasi is a Nigerian. He writes from the ancient city of Kano. A Biochemistry undergrad at Bayero University, his works have appeared in Praxis Magazine, Kalahari Review, Salamander Ink Magazine, and elsewhere. You can find him on Instagram: @pluetarch. Also, via email at [email protected].
