Sand Sand
no let them pour sand sand for your body
I’m in the middle of a storm
This is a violent sandstorm.
I live in a land where sand
Is a precursor to rains
that have nothing to do with
growing grain in the fields,
just enough water for steam.
You and I in the pot being
firmed for the pleasure of
the beasts known to hoard
the treasures we hear of
Even get a glimpse of, but
we do not feast. We are
the feast on feet, part of
the fleet to foot a defence
of our beasts’ appetites.
The sand is seasoning,
we are seasoned warriors.
We know to give way to jaws
We know to make noise
What is not an option,
is giving them war.
Disturbed
What I have just killed I have never seen
And today I would have to say, it is exciting
to share this destiny with many. That every
death is a suicide from our daring to keep living
our finite lives eternally searching for meaning.
Nothing did it find on me still about like a shrew
yet unfazed by a serpent. Yet my hand, a sledge
spread out like a carpet descended. As flies to wanton
boys it was to me as we are to the gods
Squashed for sport leaving a blotch on the spot.
We are to the gods perhaps creatures never before seen
That go about running, stumbling on quiet territory
Taking nothing from it, adding ripples to a steady evening.
Tharseo Jovita is a Kaduna boy a neighborhood woman insists on calling Baba Yoruba. He likes to aimlessly wander in streets, write poems and write short stories because what else is there to do? His work can be found in Kalahari Review and WENSUM Literary Magazine with others forthcoming.