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i stopped dreaming        of Neptune; a sky raining diamonds       collected into my hat

i mean, into the gloved hands of my mother’s surgeon   //

tonight, i’m suctioned       into a dreamscape      where the ghost of my father is a spaceship

pirate     on this plain      of light, gas & dust   //  from a sun dog, he rides       on

a UFO plastered with the stickers of soccer stars      from the future      ; all cyborgs

he asks about home       i tell him the hand of our clock is a dart      ; it strikes       twelve &

there is a windfall       of mangled bodies        on our streets        black boys

in a Venn diagram        with two circles in a rectangle indicating the relationship

between bullets & boys         he sighs          then, inverts an hourglass of stardust

to allow more time with me      //

from here, earth is an aquarium of dead fish         nanobots transmit his thoughts

in a wireless cloud         screens display a fond memory       of him spinning me around

remembrance is a letter burning       in reverse, he says         whetting a spearhead

on an asteroid        to hunt drones          sent from an alien observatory

i tell him my cousins say grace         over plates of bones      from necklaced bodies

i tell him it’s another kind of Ash Wednesday now     i tell him

much has changed         about him         so much         some villains decompose

into gods, he tells me       an average ghost is Einstein’s IQ       raised to the power

of all the nerves         in the human brain         his reflection blue on the surface of the Styx

like a litmus paper in alkaline        //

he pulls out a gold tooth        & instructs me to buy a casket or             pay the bride-price

of my dreams           he exiled

says i must hold my breath         as i embrace him            because, he stinks of regrets

 

he squeezes nanobots into my palms         i would wake up to find          as screws

i ask him if he misses home

& his body breaks into a thousand salmons

returning                to an eye        //



Martins Deep (he/him) is a poet of Urhobo heritage, a photographer, and a digital artist. He is a graduate of Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. His works have been published or are forthcoming in Magma Poetry, Strange Horizons, Fiyah, Lolwe, 20:35 Africa, Augur Magazine, Tahoma Literary Review, and elsewhere. He says hi @martinsdeep1.
Current Issue
24 Mar 2025

The winner is the one with the most living wasps
Every insect was a chalk outline of agony / defined, evaluated, ranked / by how much it hurt
In this episode of the Strange Horizons Fiction podcast, Michael Ireland presents Reprise by Samantha Lane Murphy, read by Emmie Christie. Subscribe to the Strange Horizons podcast: Spotify
Black speculative poetry works this way too. It’s text that is flexible and immediate. It’s a safe space to explore Afrocentric text rooted in story, song, dance, rhythm that natural flows from my intrinsic self. It’s text that has a lot of hurt, as in pain, and a lot of healing—an acceptance of self, black is beauty, despite what the slave trade, colonialism, racism, social injustice might tell us.
It’s not that I never read realistic fiction and not that I don’t like it. It’s just that sometimes I don’t get it. I know realistic fiction, speculative fiction, and genre fiction are just terms we made up to sell more narrative, but I’m skeptical of how the expectations and norms of realism lurk, largely uninterrogated or even fully articulated, in the way readers, editors, and publishers interact with work that purports to depict quote unquote real life.  Most broadly defined, realistic stories depict the quotidian and accurately reproduce the daily events, characters, and settings of the world we live
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