Dusk

By Akin-Ademola Emmanuel

after ransacking the markets & puckering 

with buyers' children, trying to forget our

hunger, we return. you might think there's

a place I call home, maybe I might be

wrong— but home could be in the hands 

of a lover, in the streets or in a shop that

leaves cabbages & tomato to glide on our

sour tongues. in the evenings, we listen to

the windows that clamp against the dull 

blades of the wind, we listen to hunger,

within the walls in our stomachs, puking air 

through our mouths. it's 2020 & we have

grown so coldened that we reluctantly heed our ears to

the apparitions that break spires & gather

dusts on our throats while we stare at an 

old woman here who got pushed out of the

doors of a couple's home & drenched with 

cold water for coming to beg again. it's October

& the mango tree waves weakly with light stems—

there, I stare again as a loosened gnarl.