Ìdèra
It is always beginning—like the lifecycle of man.
There's no exit to Mama’s suffering—only a corner for shadowing.
She still kneels for her life even in the absence of napalm.
Says, the bullet which bonded my father with the afterlife
still branches her dreams when sleeping. She named me Ìdẹ̀ra;
seeking relief after a pink pain—seeking erasure from
the war which erased her husband. My father—an Ackee nut.
No one knows the color of peace's coat until a corner
of their balcony is blackened by bombs. Another
laced with leeching fear. For my mother,
I'm the paradise behind a thorny tiny rope. See me bear Yemoja
in my bowel. Which form of fire would dare flail her footprints?
Tell me, what would you name the rain succeeding heat,
if not beats flapping wings into a sour song?
if not dewdrops answering dry leaves’ prayers?
Say, each strand of my hair is a blade unwinding wounds.
Bluebird
I do not deserve this gloom nor a synthetic miracle.
A camouflage wing for a wrecked bluebird is valueless.
Anything that won't see the moonlight with me
shouldn't visit during the sunrise. I told my father,
Wind is my friend—the only witness of my loneliness.
He said, wind is a vagabond eating whatever is on his path.
He birthed me a cyborg, sabred a Sokoto Gudali cow
on her naming day. Had he forgotten; a swine
is a swine no matter the expensiveness of the silk you put on her?
A minute to be beaded round her arms,
Her system said, battery shutdown, please charge.
Please charge me, my battery will soon shut down.
Bead me round your arms, even for a minute.
I put on an expensive silk, they still call me a swine.
Had they forgotten my name also sabred a cow?
A cyborg birthed me and a vagabond violet wind ate her up.
My father told me,
wind is not a friend—it is the live witness of your loneliness.
It is still the sunrise and I swear, nothing is seeing the moonlight with me.
Anything valueless is a camouflage wing & a wrecked bluebird &
I do not deserve this gloom nor a synthetic miracle.
Photo Courtesy of Jennifer Weigel
