Speak The Mag

Dreams ~ Curves ~ Reason ~ Close


(for Didi)

as many grains of salt as memories
—count all the touches you remember
—the blossom of skin and mind
—grapes were first dreams before they became fruits

as many grains of salt as memories
—somewhere else in a mirror
—there was nothing on the clothesline but thoughts of you
—a bowl of slaw had more love than keywords

as many grains of salt as memories
—we make love in a bow of autumn leaves
—midnight blue is an arrival
—a tasteless city did not get in the way

as many grains of salt as memories
—the harmony of creaks
—more clinks and empty glasses
—we kept the boxes where they were

as many grains of salt as memories
—three sleepless night with rain
—cups of tea and exit doors
—close to the jar of honey and marigold duets

as many grains of salt as memories

Note: the last three blank spaces in this poem are for the readers to fill in.



purple lines / touch
at night—aprill in view—i cry
quietly in need of you

a. the moon stares
b. the string is new

a day / set aside for
old curls—glass & voices—we
end up sleeping like wet octaves

a. down the stairs
b. on a blue stone

you are singing / soft
triangles—bud to bud—no
box to fill today nor theirs

a. the slow moon
b. turns out to be

a wildflower / in cloudy
metres—nip & tip—we say
round numbers to a bath



minutes after sleeping

a mute vase
falls & breaks
into memories

minutes after waking

my bed is red
again, the shape
of asking shellfishes

minutes after waking

tiny reasons, you
cream one edge of your                                                                                                         
finger, another edge of her piano

minutes after sleeping

raindrops & a cup
left alone for
no one

minutes after waking



—it felt so good watching the mirror in its pieces
—the first few days were for my moles
—i wanted a happy hair
—you wanted your dress without buttons
—three times the rain didn’t stop
—you forgot to dry yourself
—the texture goes on and on
—you didn’t know the way out; you saw an album
—day in, day wide, footfalls sounded like potato crisps
—one morning, there was no door
—you said nothing; there was yours & a scrapbook
—more candles, more darts, more dreams
—close to wet horses
—it is a new day and it is the last thing

David Ishaya Osu
meet the author

David Ishaya Osu

David Ishaya Osu is a poet, memoirist, and street photographer. His work has appeared in magazines and anthologies across Nigeria, Uganda, the UK, the US, Australia, Canada, Austria, Bangladesh, India, France, South Africa, and elsewhere. He is an associate poetry [...]