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is to be hungry like a boat; stomach stretching out
unto a wholesome waterflesh. is to gorge the ocean’s lilac

with the moon littered on its flesh. the throat erected
as an anthill. to smudge the body as a colony of disclosures

woven with footprints of all the ghosts sieved into the earth.
tell me how to eat a ghost till the mouth is full of peaches.

to disappear into a song wide enough to drown is to hold a light
to the chest and repeat a happy song till it becomes a blade

on the tongue. my chest is a sky-rack of immaculateness,
a cheesecloth adjusted to keep birds from nesting.

a child recognizes his parents by the hands that feed him,
I swear the first parent I ever knew was the absence of one.

my father was rafted over waters. my tears chart his body,
a sloppy dash, in the verbatim of the heart’s favourite expelling.

the best human conversation is the silence
that warms the heart. the latitude is measured out of grief.

the soft accentuation, music’s favourite threshold.

it is tough to remember my father because his face is a road
swallowed up by fog. I cast my emptiness with the song

cataloguing enough ash in my voice. my soul is the oasis
inside his eyes, an origami placed before a calcified wind.



Wale Ayinla is a Nigerian poet, essayist, and editor. His works recently appeared or are forthcoming in Guernica, Cultural Weekly, South Dakota Review, Rhino Poetry, UpTheStaircase Quarterly, The LitQuarterly, Cimarron Review, Slipstream, Ruminate Magazine, McNeese Review, Waccamaw, Poet Lore, Palette Poetry, and elsewhere.
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18 Mar 2024

Strange Horizons
We are very happy to welcome Dante Luiz as a new fiction editor on the team! Dante is a Ignyte Award winning author, and has been with Strange Horizons working as an Art Director for the past several years. We’re stoked to bring him on to the fiction side and have him bring his wonderful insight and skill to the fiction team.
Day in and day out, the rough waters of the Pacific slam themselves against the protrusion of sandstone the locals refer to as Morro Rock. White streaks of bird shit bleed down the rock, a testament to the rare birds of prey that nest in its pocked face overlooking the bay.
in my defence, juggling biological and artificial, i tripped over my shoelace, and spilled my lungs empty of the innocence that was, before guilt.
the birds, / who carry with them / the many names of the dead
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