CORRESPONDENCE TO SELF
O, Love. my innards brim
with napalm & they’re just happy to
have a first son.
write me back if you also bear
sadness jewelled to a molar.
you, half-smiling boy,
cannot let them see your grief sparkle,
will not let it roll down
to your father’s feet.
i know you. brown boy.
perfect masquerade. draping the blades
paring away your skin.
you fleshless shadow. you
a whole forest wilting within you.
your chest, a fossil of chest.
inside your mouth, a burning church.
inside the church, a tongue
weightlessness is a thing of flair. it is a certain
elegance to be as light as a shadow.
but this is not a prayer to be clad in the mass of
wind, or fleshed with the skin of a thought.
for i was once the texture of moonlight, my bones
tender like a honeyed limb.
i already learnt the magic of disappearing
without waving around my slender arms—
my tongue; the wand, each sentence;
a spell that unfleshes me, renders me an anatomy
of phantom—ghost boy with mist for voice.
when i am a bluebird
wiping its beak
clean on a leaf, the focus is on the leaf.
when i weave into a winter coat, they ask
if i cannot be fire.
this is how a boy is neither enough for
desire or thirst, to be a meal which the
throat won’t feel its passing, instead,
gliding / gently / like a gulp of air.
but i look back & find myself re-learning
gravity; my body, slowly re-moulding into
a thing that bleeds.
to practice, i chorus my first name
& it answers me with a quiet kiss.
look, i am showing mother my hands
& she doesn’t see an ocean.
Poem © Samuel Adeyemi
Image by Marek Studzinski from Pixabay