Akinwale Peace Akindayo — Two Poems

My Mother Mourns my Step-grand­moth­er

My step-grand­moth­er laid on the porch
An eagled spread below the sky
Her flail­ing. Body only a con­tain­er of the soul.
Her body only a con­tain­er of can­cer.
You have been old since I knew you.

I crum­bled in prayers, step-grand­moth­er,
I prayed in your tongue.
Let your grave know I want­ed to save you.

But step-grand­moth­er allows us this grief as old peo­ple do.
Step-grand­moth­er dis­pos­es her­self of us & allows us grief.
Departure is her body before my eyes in the church
A human body with lips that can­not speak
Eyes that can­not open, chin deep
fur­rowed in the dust.

November Mirror
writ­ing about death in the month of birth

I am star­ing at the speck­les on the wall behind you
& you talk about necro­sis.    You say to your friend
Oblivion is a slow mech­a­nism of what­ev­er dark;
Whatever night the wind rove over con­crete graves.
I looked through you & it is the deep fur­rows of your soul I see.

It is always November in your eyes.
You drank more than your body could con­tain in October
& nobody sym­pa­thized with you.

You return every day to stare at my vivid face
Your eyes inflamed with red­ness. Nobody can explain how you keep this life;
Life con­tained always in a pas­sage of exit­ing.

~

Akinwale Peace Akindayo (AKA Philip Peace) writes from a small room in North Central, Nigeria. He writes poet­ry, non­fic­tion and essays. He has works on Barren Magazine, Agbowo Art Magazine, African Writers, Blue Marble Review and else­where. He tweets via Peace Akinwale.