i tell myself to bend

for you during this war,

seek refuge in you whilst

slaving to your flowers

forever and ever. see

you as another odyssey.

a polyglot of french kisses.


there will be a fire at noon

as a leaf turns into a twig

& a twig turns into a sapling.

& i must. go on all fours.

like i always do; shiver under

you. you must bathe in me.



body you threw

into the war is for us.

& the wars we are yet to fight.





Uncle Solanke threw me out of

heaven beacuse I reached it

with my fingers and a pink dildo


He called me an immigrant living

in him; but


Uncle Solanke never looked like a

country. He wore a ring always

and carried an image of my aunt

and their children everywhere.


I was alone on a constricting

afternoon when

heaven only seemed far


With a body hovering over mine —

Read Also:  Heaven in Bold Letters by Priye Gift Johnson


I remember when my aunt glared

at me  in the market. What I saw

were unspoken words only a woman

could understand. They threatened

to burst.

Her eyes tied me down like the Saharan



But uncle had a smile on

his face when I told him about

aunty and her desert eyes.


Another constricting afternoon saw

Uncle Solanke and I with purpose.

He did not fail to hang

my body on his. He did not fail to

share all of him with me. His


hips are always busy when my frame

finds him as a shelter. they slide with a

sinking delight


I do not think my aunt has

felt her husband as i have.


Uncle led me to heaven with

his body, with his walking stick &

a fill of  palm wine.




When we meet

we do it with locked

passions, interwined fingers

against a bathroom wall

[or any other wall]…

Read Also:  Shishna by James Penha

A collision comes to feeling —

a thunderstorm / soaring winds

enclosed within two buildings.

We see our nudes in empty

rooms, facing each other

during a sunset until our

throats are no longer

incubators.   so   we converge

like iron in a fire—

a climax is found when it

melts, another is found

when it is reshaped; a driving force

of heat. When we converge

we find ourselves on holy

ground,    on /

hill tops,

as reflections of our god-

given abstracts.




Funmilayo Obasa is a non-fiction writer, poet and freelance photographer searching for ways to speak with her images and metaphors. Writing from Kwara, Abuja or whichever place she finds herself, her words tend to paint her imaginative sentiment of humanity & equality [for all], desires, emotions, attractions, fears, denials in abstract ways, establishing the relationship between society and existence. She has a few of her works published/forthcoming in Bodies and Scars anthology, Cephalopress, Brittlepaper, Fragbits [soon others will join].

Categories: Poetry

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