By Prosper C. Ìféányí

they are amputating the heads

of small trees & putting them

in small polythene bags. a truck

comes to get them at night

because that is the

best season for anomy. i see

men working in oil fields

or serving in the army—

chest propped into small coffins

& unanimated dolls. they

voyage the bottom sea with these

many heads in guise of trout

fishing; if the sea wasn't

so half-asleep, it would have

gifted them a home in the wrapping

of a blustery wind. the sun comes

clean to the window skeined

by the willow tree. sunstroke

ensconced on the eye of beholder.

dogs paddling in circles

for the return of their masters

the sea brings them home

in little gulps: boots first,

axe, then gunpowder, smoke pipes

bottleneck guitars, & blue sacks

of bodies. & they say

nature doesn't fight for its own.

Prosper C. Ìféányí writes from Nigeria. His works are featured or forthcoming in The Offing, The Westchester Review, Black Warrior Review, Salt Hill, Magma Poetry, The Fourth River, New Note Poetry Anthology, and elsewhere. His debut micro-chapbook, Sermon (Ghost City Press), appears in 2023. He has a B.A in English and Literary Studies from Delta State University.