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?