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Another Abiku Poem

two weeks ago we wrote another Abiku poem / & enlarged it —
— spread its body on the living room floor & called it a rug

my cousin’s body had once laid in a newspaper / under the obituary section

Sunrise: Feb 10, 2016
Sunset: Feb 11, 2016

it reads —
Note: [ his name was still being processed ]

my little sister left a key in the door / & hid behind the kitchen door to scare her fear

I amuse myself by counting the sunlight on the house stairs

you had heard about the sunlight that kisses piece of the sea skin in the bathroom tub

In our Abiku poem / a child was born once / twice & maybe thrice &

few years back / our house was one of the casualties in the nameless war on the TV

Nobody ever taught the science of dying to my cousin / he learned it by listing & labeling the loopholes in my aunt’s womb

his body shared the same weight with the sea / his eyes reddish like my previous cousin’s eyes / his body is two years older than the age of his grave

Jeremy T. Karn is poet from Monrovia, Liberia. He’s an undergraduate student. His poems have been published on,, Sleepless in Monrovia and some are pending publication at Kalahari Review.

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