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It wasn’t me
Ever heard me laugh without a sound?
I am black
Immutable
That couldn’t be my kisser
It was yellow and red
It was any pick from the rainbow

My hand it was, not me
Not my hand, it’s my finger to blame
Well, just a heady mail from
Ovation consulate

In vain I wrestled
To wed its pace and mine
Into this millennial cave
Where heads ebb to dots
And feelings flight fails not
From no distance to another
Feelings flight alternate

I never cried when I laughed
It wasn't me
It was for ceremony
I disown the smile I gave
I never gave

To subtlety was I never tamed
Still less quick I was
To fail to say, to type
How unfunny
Her joke
How shallow
A persiflage

I was redundant anyway
I and my slow strict bends
I was absent and never missed
The fast one was the lenient too

My animus she missed
Amity she snubbed
She was in safe hands no doubt

How it loved her my thumb
Tablet, tap, type, and send
All in the cast except me

If only my lips got a pass
I would have told her a story
Of how emoji smiled at her
It was not me.



Onyendozi Samson Aja is an emerging writer who attempts to see words in everything around him. He is trained to write legal texts, but he always yields to the drive to write poetry. He lives in Nigeria and may be found on Twitter @SamsonAja.
Current Issue
22 Apr 2024

We’d been on holiday at the Shoon Sea only three days when the incident occurred. Dr. Gar had been staying there a few months for medical research and had urged me and my friend Shooshooey to visit.
...
Tu enfiles longuement la chemise des murs,/ tout comme d’autres le font avec la chemise de la mort.
The little monster was not born like a human child, yelling with cold and terror as he left his mother’s womb. He had come to life little by little, on the high, three-legged bench. When his eyes had opened, they met the eyes of the broad-shouldered sculptor, watching them tenderly.
Le petit monstre n’était pas né comme un enfant des hommes, criant de froid et de terreur au sortir du ventre maternel. Il avait pris vie peu à peu, sur la haute selle à trois pieds, et quand ses yeux s’étaient ouverts, ils avaient rencontré ceux du sculpteur aux larges épaules, qui le regardaient tendrement.
We're delighted to welcome Nat Paterson to the blog, to tell us more about his translation of Léopold Chauveau's story 'The Little Monster'/ 'Le Petit Monstre', which appears in our April 2024 issue.
For a long time now you’ve put on the shirt of the walls,/just as others might put on a shroud.
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