shrieking facets of droppings of little rains; my
eyes are cubicles of tiny falls – when what I
eat is the stains of the mouths of dogs – when in
my dream, I suffer isolation. I want
to learn how to unclog the manacle that sits on
the writhing of my caged tongue – blue
sea and blurred visions. and because my hand is a pendulum
clock, the sisters of my sisters of my
father’s brother chuckle; they moan with jests – my
morning is a mourning of salty ice.
in schools, teachers tell us of parrot’s loquacious
protests, crafts incessantly from the
shackles of hefty hands and boring clogs of chains- we
laugh our lungs, stupid for the truth.
this plight is a sand of non-retreating pain our
hand will only phase its walls of stone – man, I learned
to speak to my shadow in silence – Our Lord’s Prayer(s)
never left the bricks that guide my mouth.
the girl in Sambisa knows how whips get lashed on the
tenderness of backs,
the penises of little boys hoping death is a Plato of
sweet pains; and because we never saw what they see,
we jump like toads into the shoes that wear them.
I sing for a night of a happy moon –
I wish to hear the fall of stars, coming
to define to me the ancestral home of freedom.
– Shitta Faruq Adémólá