F I S H H E A D – Brian Gyamfi
I slit them. Each cut smoked and flourished.
I became heaven, water flowing from flesh,
blemish-black ginger scent. The priest left the crust
and I smiled like an old man’s
house, sadden to see crumbs scattered
W H A T W I L L P E O P L E S A Y – Brian Gyamfi
At Sea World my nanny once said, “it’s ridiculous to be given an old heart as if it’s an object, like expensive cement, or a leg so blistered and plunging.” Now she’s dead.
Reincarnated as the centipede father squashed; she’s dead again.