White Noise

Inside a bold V shape, an inverted reflection appears in a rippling puddle with fresh green grass sprouting along one edge. Outside the V, the image is in black and white, the water still, the grass dry.

I stood at the edge of my life
to inspect if there is a new way to begin, 

but all I found was the same familiar silence
swallowing me whole. 

My ears were bleeding white, I ran out of my body
and slid into a coffee shop. 

There is no sane way to escape

the body. The boy behind the counter offered me his teeth
and wanted my name in return. 

A boy has no name today, stranger—
I’ll carry your name as mine today. 

A cup of hot coffee on the table, 
and in it, the art of a cat letting off an atomic bomb.

I tug at my shirt, and I am the cat.
I tug at my fur and I am the bomb. 

What is there to do now? 
Why is the jukebox playing the same song

over and over,
and over, and

Animashaun Ameen

Animashaun Ameen is a poet and essayist. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Salamander Magazine, Foglifter, Lolwe, Third Estate Magazine, Roadrunner Review, and elsewhere, and he is the author of Calling a Spade (forthcoming). He lives and writes from Lagos, Nigeria. An oddball. A butterfly.

Header photograph by Linds Sanders
Header artwork by Jordan Keller-Wilson

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