on passover night
[i]
it rained. May showers washed off,
from our lintel, the blood
of our paschal lamb,
& Azrael didn’t Passover.
our guest walked in, robed with the scent
of blooming flowers destined
to wreathe an early grave.
widowbirds, hopping from
the eye sockets of our guest
weaved the threads of father’s
Sunday’s best into graveclothes.
& after dipping his hands
in the same bowl as father,
he pulled out a serviette,
& it was his death certificate.
the dreary impression of his keen lips
on this paper was a doctor’s stamp.
[at dawn, eavedrops on my tongue
tasted like liquid rust of coffin nails]
[ii]
at the right shoulder of a wooden crucifix
on his gravestone, a crow calls
me in his voice–father’s;
ushers me to a playground
through the belly of a thirsty river.
i reply with the sling of a pebble.
Martins Deep is a Nigerian poet and photographer. He is passionate about documenting muffled stories of the African experience in his poetry and visual art. Writing from Kaduna, or whichever place he finds himself, the acrylic of inspiration that spills from his innermost being tends to paint various depictions of humanity/life in his environment. His creative works have appeared, or are forthcoming in Barren Magazine, Chestnut Review, Mineral Lit Mag, Agbowó Magazine, Writers Space Africa, Typehouse Literary Magazine, The Alchemy Spoon, Dream Glow, The Lumiere Review, Variant Literature, and elsewhere. He is also the brain behind Shotstoryz Photography and can be reached on Twitter: @martinsdeep1