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.

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