Empty by Hussain Ahmed

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I know what a body emptied 

of its light, feels like on the palms. 

I have seen a body emptied of 

its memory, I dread the open eyes, 

even though I don’t dream of them – 

I dread what is dead that is not a sacrifice. 

I avoid eyes emptied of light, I fear 

they would tell me something new about myself

if our eyes meet. I am scared they would 

tell me what no one would believe.

I am not bold enough to be a mad prophet.  

Today, I locked eyes with a small body, 

emptied of want. The toddler was younger 

than the one I held to the cemetery in these hands

because we don’t have gurney for children. 

I dream of bodies cloaked for prayers, 

laid on the grey rug inside my room. 

I’m waiting for my brothers to join me 

as we always do, but they are seven seas away 

& this prayer must be said before the sun set. 

Because the moon is God’s right eye, 

we don’t bury our dead under its light, even in war.

I was alone, but I hear my lover’s voice 

asking me to switch off the fan. 

With eyes eclipsed with fatigue, I raised my hands 

and brought the blades to a halt

after watching the clips of children 

dressed as if they were on a journey in Sahara, 

except their mothers are assembled 

in a garden of wren, learning to perfume their palms 

with what is left of the dead. I made ablution 

and stood on the danduma – spread before I slept off, 

the sun slouched in its cradle, it’s past time for prayer.

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Hussain Ahmed is a Nigerian poet and environmentalist. He is the 2022 winner of the Orison book prize, the author of Soliloquy with the Ghosts in Nile (Black Ocean Press) and currently a PhD student at the University of Cincinnati.

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17 April 2023