Written by Saheed Sunday

There are ways to liquefy ladies with
sequel of determinants, held to their

mouths like cliches into harmonicas
you start, like biceps to the skin to

adjectivise [ebony, red-lipped, afro-
ed] a woman into colors/flames of

turnings —you become a cherub,
winged, telling God how even an

eyeliner afro heaves you weave into
a boulevard of lust, glossy affections

like a sleeping centipede nodding
to every praises moistening its legs

into a classical form of c r a v i n g
Lord, how do we break away from

things that birthmark our hearts,
like hair, like hair, like the afro a

lady wears to squeeze my heart
into tight rooms it does not fit?