Poetry

A Night in Ibadan
by Ernest O. Ògúnyẹmí 

We were walking through a lucid town, clear
Of voice, but for a low generator ringing
Into the night. The woman wrapped in golden
Dew; the children snoring like drugged radios.
You passed me your hand, I leaned into you and
Turned your chest open, lifted the cup of
Your heart and drank the rippling blood
Of the promise. In the naked sky, a red star
Burned like a bright button burnished by grace.
Stay with me. We will retain the dew in our bodies,
We will keep the alabaster from bursting,
I said as I returned the cup of your heart to its
Place. Belong to me. Belong to me always.
Our hands woven together, we walked through
The town, whispering. You told me of a dream
You had where the ghost of your mother
Returned with a basket of apples, blue apples.
At your touch each apple disappeared. Your mother,
Like any knowing adult watching the silliness of
A child, smiled her gap-tooth smile. Nothing of
The dead is real. Nothing of the dead is real.
After you died to me, I would think of that dream,
And wonder at the audacity of hunger, the
Necessary fire that is grief. And love, after you died
To me, I would think of the immense love it takes
The dead to smile at the impossibility of their
Giving, the casual grace of surrender.