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i walked into a poultry house
it was emptied the day before
to customers

—save for one hen

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it stood at a corner
and gradually,
the house emptied
its emptiness into the hen’s eyes

it glanced from memory
to relic
lost in this home
that smells of space
and not safety,
of stale memories
and not clucking moments
this home that has become
a counter lined with empty bottles
of recollections
and a chalice
half filled with longing and despair,

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an empty cupboard
carved from dreams there
a broken drawer of fantasies here

and a wardrobe overflowing
with premature eggs;
dreams that broke before dawn did

i walked closer
and stared closely

the house transformed into my body

only then did i recognize the hen

 

 

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Post image by Gary Crawford via Flickr.

About the Author:

Portrait - Nuhu

Hauwa writes poetry, prose and a bit of essays. Her work has appeared on Expound magazine, The Kalahari Review, Afridiaspora, Brittlepaper and elsewhere. She enjoys reading John Green and staring at lovely eyes .