We Laughed
nobody tells you that nothing
will wait for you when you are still,
the snow geese, warblers and wrens
will fly home for the winter.
those things like starfishes in air,
called daffodils will bloom in spring,
the world didn't wait for my father
when he bled on the toilet seat —
the floor didn't rise up to his ankles
and hold him from falling & falling
in pain, in secret, to face the sun again
for work, hair brushed & shoes shone
all life is acting, the world a stage
the scan upon scan in that stifling lab,
all symbols of the end, all future & nothing
the doctors keep droning on, one hand on the skin,
the other trying to pinpoint where tiny things go,
yes, tiny things find their way into the body —
they hide, they slither, they pretend to be meat
last Christmas, with a big bag on my shoulders, i entered
my father's white room pretending to be Santa Claus,
all beard, and "ho ho ho,"
every gift was the right one except the white empty box
containing healing and we laughed.
Abiodun Salako
biodun Salako is a journalist, writer and Editor-in-Chief of Curating Chaos. His fractured pieces have been published in Sledgehammer Lit, LocalTrainMag, levatio, Bullshit Lit, Spill Words Press, EBOQuills, Kalahari Review, African Writer Mag, Afrocritik, WriteNowLit and elsewhere. Find more of his writings on X @i_amseawater.