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The Festival – Ọbáfẹ́mi Thanni

I sit in the hours before lullabies shut my eyes, taking census of my sorrows—the tenderness lost, the boisterous children who turn my mind on itself, the silence after a good joke, the period swollen with distance in a lover’s postscript, the fickle warmth of touch, the October earth offering water before a corpse fills its mouth