Shivers
Adamu Yahuza Abdullahi
for Ma, who wouldn’t stop grieving.
It’s not that I have ever been full of anything,
But your absence spills from my mouth each time I stutter.
Some days, I tiptoe into the thin line between forgetting and recalling,
Hoping to catch a glimpse of you again.
My hands, two shivers away from tenderness.
Mistaking filling for feeling.
Mubaraq, despite the trials, nothing’s ever helped;
Memory only tears us more apart, and the void grows more pregnant.
In biology class, my teacher advised grieving parents to bear more children—
A knowledge I cannot share with Ma, who hasn’t yet learned the color between birth and loss,
Who spends her nights worshipping the dark to reach you,
Who holds the ashes of your memory to heart like lyrics from a song that no longer exists.
What I don’t say is she’s not capable of any birthing except loneliness.
It’s been three years, and here’s what her imagination is:
The world is a game of hide and seek, and you’re a master of its tricks.
ADAMU YAHUZA ABDULLAHI, THE PLOB, TPC V, MAAR II, is a poet and visual artist from Borgu, Nigeria. His debut poetry collection, The Rainbow is Not As Beautiful as my Ruins, is forthcoming from Felis Catus Press.