Content warning: Depiction of Death or Terminal Illness. in the month of September, when the birds go on vacation, they sing alone—the parrot in the deaf to the deer— they sing alone until the next September, the day of my birthday—i wear a red dress for the “mourners should not be sexy”, a woman said, side-eyeing me with despair. “she is & i just adjusted my hair to make sure the photographer & he cried. & he cried for his friend and the lover i understand. it’s September 29. evening. it’s 11 PM & the photographer is still snapping others. missing me on purpose in one hour, it will be over. my birthday. my death. my mystery. my mourning. the birds are back. they are singing alone and i am walking up. It’s dark. It’s September About the Author Josiane Kouagheu is a journalist and writer from Cameroon. Her poems have appeared in Frontier Poetry, The Kalahari Review, Brittle Paper, African Writer Magazine and elsewhere.
they are singing alone
drawer is
mourning.
looking for a man”, another murmured
doesn’t miss my dogged prickle—two hours ago, he asked me to hold his lens.
of his dream. “I did not have time to tell her” he repeated wiping away his tears.
30. the day after. they are still singing alone. the birds.
