After the Biafran War

By the kitchen, the piano

sheds its sound. Such

twisted tang of rhythm

lilting through the room.

On a tripod chair, eating

waffles from mother's

plate; they came. Strong

bodied men coiling into

the simple act of lifting

and jamming. What they

wanted, tucked under the

skin of the roof. Father's

radio, dislodging all kinds

of rustic sounds. The vase

on the balcony, shattered

into brittle ceramic shells—

Father hiding among the piles.

The black canaries sing of

the laying on crow-footed

notes. What if the wind

found him before them?

What if it was to be his

last? Kitchen, and the piano

sheds its sound. Rhythm of

tang twisted such that it lilted

through the room; they couldn't

find his body, nor the tune.

My father, among the piles.