of my love’s signature
—after Hozier’s “Cherry Wine”
in the kitchen, my love’s dicing tomatoes,
I behind her, my hand knotted around her
waist. she sings Simi’s Smile for Me as she parts
each whole into bits & bits, & she does this in
the way God had made her, carefully, precise as
the kiss of steel & cheek when she turned, gave me
a hickey & the next minute my face was
marked, the red of me fresh like tomato paste
on the knife. I understand that it is impossible
to love a thing without making it yours, each scar,
a color bird, is my love’s signature. when pasting a plaster
to the tiny door, an artwork, she calls it, my love tells of
a woman, a long time ago, who fried akara with
blood. this story was told to her by her uncle,
the one who rocked her to sleep with the fox
between his legs, who made her this way. she tells this story
& we both laugh at the foolishness of it all. when
my laughter dries too soon, she dances a fist into
my belly. in bed, she’ll ask me if it is possible
to love a thing without wounding it. I’ll look
out at the dark curtains of the sky & say no,
don’t the stars stab the night’s garment to feed us
light?
(First appeared in Mineral Lit Mag)
in the kitchen, my love’s dicing tomatoes,
I behind her, my hand knotted around her
waist. she sings Simi’s Smile for Me as she parts
each whole into bits & bits, & she does this in
the way God had made her, carefully, precise as
the kiss of steel & cheek when she turned, gave me
a hickey & the next minute my face was
marked, the red of me fresh like tomato paste
on the knife. I understand that it is impossible
to love a thing without making it yours, each scar,
a color bird, is my love’s signature. when pasting a plaster
to the tiny door, an artwork, she calls it, my love tells of
a woman, a long time ago, who fried akara with
blood. this story was told to her by her uncle,
the one who rocked her to sleep with the fox
between his legs, who made her this way. she tells this story
& we both laugh at the foolishness of it all. when
my laughter dries too soon, she dances a fist into
my belly. in bed, she’ll ask me if it is possible
to love a thing without wounding it. I’ll look
out at the dark curtains of the sky & say no,
don’t the stars stab the night’s garment to feed us
light?
(First appeared in Mineral Lit Mag)
|
BIO:
Ernest O. Ògúnyẹmí is a writer and editor from Nigeria. His works have recently appeared/ are forthcoming in Joyland, Tinderbox, Sierra Nevada Review, Journal Nine, the Indianapolis Review, Down River Road, Capsule Stories, No Tokens, the West Review, the Dark Magazine, 20.35 Africa: An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry III, Mud Season Review, Agbowó, Isele, and elsewhere. He is the curator of The Fire That Is Dreamed of: The Young African Poets Anthology.
Ernest O. Ògúnyẹmí is a writer and editor from Nigeria. His works have recently appeared/ are forthcoming in Joyland, Tinderbox, Sierra Nevada Review, Journal Nine, the Indianapolis Review, Down River Road, Capsule Stories, No Tokens, the West Review, the Dark Magazine, 20.35 Africa: An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry III, Mud Season Review, Agbowó, Isele, and elsewhere. He is the curator of The Fire That Is Dreamed of: The Young African Poets Anthology.
