Logan February

On Nature
+++*after Brynne Rebele-Henry

A seedling rises at the center of a planetarium. Sunless, fierce. All the people have their eyes to the night sky. We are here for something bigger than nature, they say. Smiling at the stars. The stars are furious, shouting silently. Look around you, idiots, we are not magnificent.
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Fact: in this moment, the world’s oldest living animal is gay. He’s a tortoise, laden with a heavy shell. This must mean slowness is erotic. I find myself wondering how long his orgasms last.
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Learning is important to humans, but not limited to them. One does not need eyes to know danger. Red is red.
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Imagine this. The mother frog tells her child: don’t go near the animals. Frogs only love frogs. No animal thinks itself an animal.
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I, human. I, homo. I, hunted.
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The sky knows how we ignore the seedling, so it says: don’t be sad, darling. Come here. Drink until you are full.
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A woman’s water breaks & she becomes two people. No one counts the afterbirth, though it is pulsing.
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The crocodile eats her fourth son for strength to raise the fifth.
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The ocean lapping against the shore. The ocean lapping around my ankles.
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If you listen to all the crickets at once they sound like a choir singing O Fortuna.
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The couple fucks in the dark against the fridge. The boy swallows communion wine like cough syrup. The sex is so good it turns my migraine into a nosebleed. This is romance. This is romance. This, too, is romance.
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Blue hummingbird, black hummingbird, green hummingbird, same hummingbird.
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My new Yorùbá husband said he wanted my sweat in his pounded yam to show I love him. Instead, I used a store-bought mix. I didn’t even break a sweat.
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Rain, rain, go away. Come again another day.

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I cough & cough, but I don’t give up smoking.
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A core is a core. The sun, too, can crack. It is very unlikely that we are the only ones in this small universe.
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This one. This one is a madman.
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So. Stop me if you’ve heard this one. A pigeon walks into a bar, right? And everyone is like: whoa man you have wings but you walked??? And then they catch & grill him. Whiskey & soy sauce. Lime & salt & honey. Do you get it do you get it do you?
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A dark body holds in too much sucrose & leaves five children fatherless.
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Every widow in Igboland is a black widow. I don’t mean by being African. I mean she washes the corpse & drinks the water. My father died in Enugu. You get what I’m saying.
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Last week, I saw an abandoned Volkswagen. There was a shrub growing inside it.
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My sister got a dog & then moved out. Now I feed the dog & he doesn’t eat. He doesn’t think he is an animal. He thinks he is God.
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Oh, they love it when you’re weird. Trust me. But not that weird. Not gay. That’s just taking it too far.
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I blame my failed romances on climate change.
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Okay, imagine this. Psychotherapy, but for mangoes. Some of them are really fucked up, man.
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Once, I bit my tongue almost clean off. Once, my dick got caught in a zipper. I’m trying to say the mind forgets but the body doesn’t.
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In some faraway galaxy, three moons are making love & I am all three of them. No, I don’t mean masturbation. I’m talking about self-love on a really, really big scale.
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Logan February is a Nigerian poet and a book reviewer. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Washington Square Review, The Adroit Journal, Vinyl, Tinderbox, The Bind, Raleigh Review, and more. He is a Best of the Net and Pushcart nominee, and his first full length manuscript, Mannequin in the Nude, was a finalist for the Sillerman First Book Prize for African Poets. He is the author of How to Cook a Ghost (Glass Poetry Press, 2017), Painted Blue with Saltwater (Indolent Books, 2018) & Mannequin in the Nude (PANK Books, 2019). You can find him at loganfebruary.com 

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