Sunday T. Saheed
THE EARTH IS A CRYING OWL
there is a face in every door I open.
my walls echo screams, abstract jingles
& my thatched roof showed scratches all over.
there wasn’t a riot here.
I once opened a door
to enter moimi’s shelves —
& be safe of these voices
like blades that cut through the defenses
of my heart, that they bled fear.
but the earth is a crying owl
whose hoots coo around like scattered
manna dropped at the doors of the Israelites.
the newspaper I burnt yesterday was demonic,
it bled from its heart. & two teeth from the
mouth of the man in blue tuxedo on the
headline slipped off him & fell on me.
there’s no safer way home,
than through the imaginary ladder that
leads through the sky
—even the coffins are no longer safe