Rosy cheeks. Long, curly hair.
Your mouth squashed under the foot of the senator
still somehow set in a shaky, watery smile.
(The girl is made of glass)
Teeth all over the floor. Which mother collects, and father hugs
to his breast to smile at. His own teeth twinkle from the light of the moon
shining through the see-through walls of this five-star hotel.
Now, we can repaint the house.
Now, the dog can get another collar;
the senator has his bone.
Now, Father could get another coat,
mother a few more hours to her wastefully spent life.
Pretty girl, come out,
and suddenly, antlers in the light.
Omotoyosi Salami is a poet and writer living in Lagos, Nigeria. A lot of her writing is influenced by the various inequalities that exist in her country. She has been published in Vagabond City Lit, Constellate Lit, and Brittle Paper. If you do not find her reading a book, you will find her writing something in her phone's Notes app. She is on Twitter @HM_Omotoyosi