Forever my Song.

In a city of hills, he puts a kiss on her neck and a flower sprouts:

It is a morning ritual you are accustomed to after night undresses us,

leaving light firm in my arms.

I look at you and understand what Mother meant when she said ‘get a good woman’

The taste of yellowed mangoes, skin of brown cherries & touch: a flicker of music.

April was the meeting month. In the slicing rains, April came with a page of sky, with you written neatly on it,

years ago in that library as I buried head in law texts, I lifted my eyes and glanced at sunshine as it offered it’s silky touch, free.

Our story glows more than memory. I retell it on your skin each time our bodies part the sea, white boats floating away.

Sometimes the black birds of my past come fluttering and they seek to eat you alive and i am scared, I do not know how long you would keep your shield raised,

or if these flower seeds would desiccate, growing sterile as the prayers of a blind beggar in unexpected rain,

for it is only the icing we have split, the rest of the cake lies uneaten and it’s only us i want to eat. It’s only us i want to eat. The fullness & whole of us, the bottom of the earthen pot.

Last plea before I probably kill myself.

I wake up daily to emptiness. Everything is bare. The sun is bare. The air is bare. It hurts to think of us in past tense. We kissed.We were

I do not know what i am anymore. The mirror calls me forgotten. I ask the butterfly how heartbreak is done, and it replies: at the wings collapse. I reach for my back and realize i am now wingless, weightless, how do you still touch me in the lightest breeze, how do you still roam this room ?

On the shoulder of a thin dark man, the moon mourns white,

at the thoughts of the kiss at Tony’s, the soft touch of bloom, the promises made, the prayers said,

& the amen that never came.

I want to ask you: do you miss me, the rose emojis,

the marigolds, the conversations at Royal hills, the dusks we waited for? but words end in still water.

Each day i slaughter memory and the sea is tired of bones. It’s like this, night is a waste without the one destined to unfold it’s softness, without silk fingers to cup jagged want.

My softness, please come back to our opening, I am certain our bodies will still receive us at the waterside.

If tomorrow doesn’t come

If the road does not lead to any morning,

let the night be enough. The half moon, the overreaching darkness, a quiet December and its occupants

house the room that is your eyes and it’s discarded favours, the nape of your neck —marble streets to the temple,

where I proceed to salaam & genuflect for a last evening.

The swallows have long disappeared, the automobiles that disturbed the afternoon’s calm, retired like the soil they lay on.

Air dances over two faces reaching into the sky,

i cup you, my face & feather,

intimate, fiddling with this quiet that forms a resin between us,

every matter transfixed,

just us moving, flying.

Moon River

You have gone to see the world,

maker of my heart,

and left the boat anchored,

on the moist beach, where I lay squandered,

watching as the ship sails you into a new mouth.

i realise that I am candle in the wind,

& also hurricane eating

on a silver plate of cloud.

i would sum up the mornings

i would wait

and gift the time,

cause’ maybe today,

maybe tomorrow,

earth would betray this body

& the sea would kill this boat.

never drowning the clothes,

nor the bye song, only keeping them

in little rooms of water.

i mark an x on my chest

for when you come back,

to find the boat leaking dust,
from entropy

keep x,

as relic, as effigy for a body,

that waited on it’s maker,

dead moon after dead moon,

at the sea’s feet

till it perished.

Running boy.

a boy in a framed photograph

poses with an ended song

a boy is a bag of water

a boy yawns into a wound

a boy is scared of light & brown


In the wild something

must bury a boy

either a human voice or birds

& yet not kill him

a boy seals his skin goodbye

like a thin envelope

makes it flammable

at all the parts he was touched

lights a match and breathes




The night is a door

into your body.

A giant toe eases

into a small cave

of rocks & wind.

Who am i

to see the moon,

crescent & half,

hunger for ripening

& do nothing ?

The clouds shudder

& crease in surprise.

It is the heart that multiplies

desire, makes it a double trick that

confounds the head.

The head slips in, bright shiny thing

like a newly minted coin.

your body enters the night

& lights go off.

At the Train Station

I come from a

line of warriors,

but all cells clutch shields

at the sight of you.

This black boy

is both egg & stone.

He could look at you

& say nothing

because he never heard his father

call any of his mothers

all the sweet things

that hid in his father’s eyes.

The white light pairs

beaming in your head

holds the stare of a scion

of ships, of conquests,

of burnt thatch roofs

& elephants locked in a jar.

You are a field of figs

dreamed by a black boy,

but he says nothing.