By Hassan Usman
it’s 5:00 in the morning. I tiptoe towards
the room’s oldest mirror in my birthday
suit, examining what parts of my father’s
silhouette I have carried into myself. I
throw my body into several equations,
solving for the closest I would equal to
a rooster. & this poem? a rough sheet saying
I have grown two inches taller, a line
that bloomed in the night, excluding my
third leg. I am still beardless &
unfit. my voice, stubborn, ever embracing
the antonyms of baritone. noon breaks on
my head. I wait, a pot of dandelions
on the table before me, on an altering,
one beyond the physicality of my portrait.
how I had imagined that on this day,
my heart would wear itself the fragrance of a marigold.
I wove, in the glass room of my mind, newness.
it’s midnight. I must remake to elegance, become
a flock of flamingos.
my palms are fetching for a cluster of stars.
my bones sparkle. I have unlearned the art of staying[too long] in darkness—
there’s so much light to take into oneself.
Hassan Usman, NGP 2/4, is an emerging poet from Lagos, Nigeria. He studies Counselor Education at the University of Ilorin, Nigeria. His works are/forthcoming in Paper Lanterns, SprinNG, Trampset, Afrocritik, IceFloe Press, Olúmo Review, Five South, Kissing Dynamite Poetry, Lunaris Review, The Shallow Tales Review, Arts Lounge, BANSI Demi-gods Anthology, and elsewhere. He’s on Twitter and Instagram @Billio_speaks.