JUNE 2025, POETRY
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I promised I wasn’t going to write another road poem,
but who am I to dictate the boundaries of the road’s invasion?
It is my fault, we did not recite the adkaar of the journey
that would have softened it, lightened it
We did not begin upon the road by praising God, chanting His name
three times, and it was my fault I did not remember
How unfortunate, we were on the bruised limbs of a road
and we forgot to commit it in God’s palms
Oh and it was a handful of days into the new year,
the year I was going to be so bright & brilliant
What use was hope on the wretched, excoriated road anyway
At one of our numerous stops, a flittering man
went about the weary park proclaiming,
Give alms to the destitute of the road, its children
But we listened not
And oh what meager harvest the lovers of the road
that tend, toil over it reap
the road is a thorny fruit, cruel, callous mother & will not yield
The rivers shrink & the road enlarges, slurping all of the water
I thought it was strange that we left the sun behind,
and the road was reversed, so that its end became the beginning
The road reversed is unforgiving
And then it drew us back,
While retracing its scabby, stretch marks–riddled epidermis,
I find the omens we ignored, unseeing
And I go about replanting ifs—
If we had seen the smoke,
If I’d heeded the recurring image of us blooming
tenderly into flames
If, If
There’s no rest on the road but, while I was curled
where it had flung me—right on the sharp brim of it,
the sun’s damp heat beating down on me,
suspended, trapped between where I came from and
where I was going, on hold, unable to resume myself,
All I could do was watch
everything else in motion; & marvel at the miracle of their hurtling,
windswept bodies, rocketing into the horizon
in pursuit of lightning
There was so much waiting in those days &
we comforted ourselves that it was all to avert a greater misfortune
Would you believe the night before was so achingly beautiful, the moon
milk kohl–lined, shimmery eyelid on its freckled face and
the road was treacherous even then
I should have learned, you cannot dare the road
the number of times I have & not be struck
The beast that transported us, straddled to its back, broke
down & we had to push
& push & walk & walk & wish & wish—
wringing it all out into the dejected air like anointment
Our Lord, grant us the relief and sweetness of arrival.
Aishat Yahkub is a Nigerian creative, poet, art enthusiast and overwhelmed medical student. A “Best Of The Net” nominee, her poem “Morning Rituals and How to Contain Chaos” was a finalist for the 2024 Akachi Chukwuemeka Prize for literature. Others are published or forthcoming in Brittle paper, Agbowó, Fiery scribe review, Peppercoast, Poetry sango–ota, Fullhouse and elsewhere. Her works seek to explore all that haunts the body. When she’s not reverentially appreciating exquisite poetry and art, she practices stillness and escapes into dreams. She lurks on Twitter @AishatYahkub.
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Behind the Scenes with Aishat Yahkub
What was the initial inspiration for this poem, and were there significant changes from that inspiration through edits and revisions?
I’ve always been fascinated by our roads here; there’s so much chaos & strangeness & fullness, it’s more fluid than static & changes one. I think the road is alive.
I call this kind of poem a “road poem,” refers to a poem I write entirely while on the road, about the road, drawing from its images, nights, people, eccentricities, secrets, dark thirst—my attempt to capture some of that fleeting stream of sensation it overwhelms its travellers with & to transcribe the experience of giving your body to the road, being transported in the belly of it, untethered.
This is my third road poem.
It was a tradition I developed on long road trips, it’s quite fun, my eyes are always outside the window, hungering.
This particular road poem had a twist to it though, it was spurred by an incident, right in the middle of our 20-hour journey that had us spend an extra day just… trapped there—it was quite frustrating & the poem poured out of me in one sitting, whole.
I only made a few adjustments later on because I wanted to retain that initial rawness and confessional feel.
How does this poem fit into your body of work—is it similar in ways to what you usually write or is it very different?
I think the road is/has a body & it has hauntings, and haunts as well.
I’m obsessed with hauntings, what haunts the body, & that’s mostly what I seek to explore in my writings, so yes, it does fit in quite nicely with my other works.
And so for my road poems in particular, the question I attempt to answer is mostly what the road does to us & what we do to the road.