losing its melody. This time the music is a stream
in another mouth, but isn’t language
like molten metal?
A name is a shifting reflection
of what frames it: an arrow jutting through skin and bone
or wine seen through glass and spilling
from the edge. I stand at the edge
of what is seen to salvage your sight
and ask:
Who blanches the face of the fertile earth
or flays the night sky, the velvet blanket
of its constellations?
Who undresses the coat of the dusky mountains glory,
mighty and magnificent against the backdrop
of sunlit cerulean?
What I mean to say is: there are many signs
for the miracle your body is.
And when I say worship this cathedral of your bones,
I mean your blood is a halo
from generations of sable saints.
Ayokunle Samuel Betiku
writes from the city of Ondo, South West, Nigeria. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in journals and anthologies, including Parousia, Kalahari Review, African Writer, Ngiga Review, Praxis Magazine, Libretto, Lunaris, Kreative Diadem, Pandemic Publications & elsewhere.
Cover photo credit: Tosin Taiwo
