Harmattan Blues
oh
fresh-cut spear grass dreaming of rain
on the plains of our Ilo
shebi i warned you that your thirst was elastic
i dream of my father’s cracking knees
and butt-naked children
farting
i dream of my grandmother’s armpits
and her gray hair
crackling like a little bush fire
shebi i told you that the palmwine gourds
would rise again
see
oases have migrated into our stomachs
and we have learned to laugh without
coughing up the source of our laughter
hush
can’t you see that mama ukwu
has exhumed her favorite Hollandis
and the graves are untended
and the ghosts are alive
and at the backyard
somebody is plucking scent leaves
to bedeck our pot of
yam pepper soup and mushrooms
can’t you see that the fallen child
is still laughing
and a moth has perched
on her grazed knee
for so long
you can call her fuschia
oh
my jesus
it is the season of meat again
an assortment
of oblivious ark dwellers
nchi / ewu / mgbada
the backyard chickens
have come clucking for help
in my dreams
but i am no messiah
i pluck their feathers
and twist their necks
and spill their blood as a
rite of passage
it is the season of passion
again
look
the wind has kissed
my mother so hard
her lips are bleeding
oh
fresh-cut spear grass
the children are clasping
dandelions between their eyelids
shebi i told you
that these songs would
outlive my sadness
nevermind that my heart
is aching
nevermind that my thirst
is stretching catapult-like
into January into do not leave me
like all things
you have died
but oh
my jesus
it is the season of meat
again.