by Shitta Faruq Ademola
Inside A Burrow
In order to find the light, darkness is what we first wear.
We build a jacket from it, and craft a hood to cover the scars on our forehead.
I admire the night, it gives you the best version of darkness, and
Bless you with the stars, to show that in darkness, light exists.
One day, i would transform into a mage, be opportuned to live in darkness,
And remain unscathed by its sharp teeth,
To cast spells with my tongue so that I do not fall into catacombs.
I travel into my heart, my mouth widened like a river when all I see are holes.
I peep into a hole and silence covers me like a mist.
I wonder and speak French to the silence. Sometimes, a mystery does not understand your native language, so i ask him
Pourquoi es-tu es méchant ? Donne moi le pouvoir d’avoir la joie.
He looks at me, and laughs. Il n’y a pas de joie ici.
I vomit myself from my chest, and run to mum. There’s no joy in the silence of my heart,
In the eyes of my mother.
I tender my skin to the fire. Sometimes, to burn is to heal, is to break the barrier
Of impossibilities.
Mum would tell me we will find the light, that the stars will glow on the roof of our house, one day.
She has forgotten that my tongue has tasted darkness, that you cannot deny what your
Mouth has once touched.
She has forgotten i was baptized with the hand made from the dark,
A hand heavy with dark songs.
Anatomy Of A Human In Distress
Each time a star finds a home in my throat, I am always reminded of a ghost cloning itself
In the enclave of a dunghill.
A fish bone sticking itself in every corner, brother — the fastest ticket to uneasiness.
Maybe the throat, too, is the
Visa to teleporting sorrows into the body.
Smoke covers my face today,
Sorrow unravels its mystery, palliating joy like the harvests of yam.
See how my head rings of loud bells, like an equation, where everything equals zero.
I mean, my head is a desolate home without the laughter of a bird,
And a desert where leaves do not sprout.
Water my head, or bless it with kisses potent like acid, so that my legs do not mismatch
Themselves to the house of a witch.
My hands grow taller than my legs. Could this be a revelation of doom? Sometimes,
Doom does not come in person but sends envoys to relay its message.
Maybe it’s finally the time to turn into its newest recipient.
Na wá o. Na so pesin dey take collect hin grief for hand. Eheh.
It’s funny how the body masters books of grief without going to school,
To perform a therapy of the heart in pitiful silence. My mentor would say, do not stop,
because stopping is the invitation to new versions of darkness.
So, I write this poem to a poetry editor, to not see me as a poet whose job
Is singing dirges on the pages of the paper,
But as an anatomist, studying the structures of his body in the silence of a dark room.
