These boys were born with partitions,
though it is worthy to note that shepherds do not
determine what colour their flocks will bear at birth.
A replica of madness it is when a lamb is coughed out
without the skin of his mother.
History says that these boys are descendants of war.
Nearly all the mouth I’ve kissed pushed an ocean
into my belly. Its salt is reaching for my lungs,
and the waters now shake the core of me.
There is no end to a war, and remnants
of silence are being bargained for in the market of dreams.
My dreams are made from floss, and a sprinkling of kerosene
and a matchstick brings it to life.
Treat this with utmost concern: there is a ribbon at the tail
of every raindrop. It is the same for depression.
The strings shelf among its many ambitions.
As easy as it is to want to live, there are brainfolds holding you
against the wind, against the portals you inherited.
I return to fan the fire of my dreams,
so thick, now, that it licks my skin with discomfort.
The boys introduce themselves as vapour.
Listen, there are no boys in this poem,
only dissolving gravestones. To say that there are boys here
is to admit that ash can mould itself into gracious bodies
that will line the city with their winged sorrows.
Depending on what part of the grave you’re standing,
the scent wilts into you.
Wale Ayinla is a Nigerian poet, essayist, and editor. He is the author of To Cast a Dream (Jai-Alai Books, 2021), selected by Mahogany Browne for the 2020 Toi Derricotte and Cornelius Eady Chapbook Prize. His works recently appeared on Guernica, Cosmonauts Avenue, Strange Horizon, North Dakota Review, South Dakota Review, TriQuarterly, Rhino Poetry, Poet Lore, and elsewhere.
