a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
and the nanny goats, like fools,
sit with us by the fireplace
and forget that we eat them.
Mom plays with dogs than me
and lays hay beds for cats;
the old bearded sheep envy me
and often snatch my soup and
when I raise my hand mom
wraps my wrist like a wrench
and says they need it too.
Dad knows I loathe the hogs,
I cry whenever I bathe them,
I remind him bending my head
that they would become soiled again;
he affirms they need it too.
But people are outside quivering gnashing
panting dying cursing God chasing humanity
brazenly showing kids what adults hide,
I pray we bring them home
I know they need it too;
mother and father snarl as panthers
that they’re not part of us
that they can’t wear our rags
or lie on our unused mattresses
or cup our dregs and leftovers;
the thunder taunts and torments them,
nobody shows they need it too.
I’m Earth. I’m pale. I’m pinning.
I’m abused by my own children.
For several years I’ve been whining
like things on a place barren;
when am tired of living so
the day I’d tell humans no
I’ll blindfold, tease and flatter them
like they’re my only beloved gem,
they having no place to go
will become debris in my phlegm.
Tim Fab-Eme experiments with poetic forms; he writes about exploitation, identity and the environment. His work has appeared in The Malahat Review, New Welsh Review; FIYAH and Magma, etc. Tim often turns to reggae and jazz whenever the news weighs him down. He studied engineering at the Niger Delta University, and when he isn’t working on control instruments, he picks a book and buries himself in it. Tim is presently pursuing a BA in English Studies at the University of Port Harcourt; he lives in the Niger Delta.