the long tellings
life stories, told in verse
the mountain did not ask our names
it only said, climb.
we did not come because it was easy (we came with more questions than luggage, each of us carrying our separate weathers…)
The moon was our ceiling.
We were never once poor under it.
Come, sit. The floor is cool. Concrete keeps its secrets from the sun, and a boy who lies belly-down on bare cement…
they say the drum does not know the name of the hand that beats it. but the son knows. the son always knows…
if you want to know what love is, do not trouble the poets. they are guessing. come and sit with me a while…
I praised her once already and every word of it stands. This is the part that would not fit inside the praise…
Six in the morning, and the street had an alarm that belonged to no one in particular…
An ordinary morning, an interview to prepare for, a man stepping out of his front door into a swarm of wasps…
Iron. The mouth closes on the word like a vice…
Come, let me tell you about the love first, because before that night there was love…
I brought a degree, a company, a clean shave. That is what a guest brings to a house. I left the rest of myself in Lagos…
Before anything else, her. Because what follows will sound like a man assembling a defence, and there is no defence…
Jehovah. Heavenly Father. It is me again, and this is not an emergency. That is the first thing I want You to know…
It is July. The year has five months left in it. I am writing from inside the thing, which is not where I write from…
They say a hen that hatches ducklings must learn to watch them from the bank. My country hatched us. My country watched…
