AFTER THE DEMISE OF A CERTAIN VENUS
& today you said/ all that remains of the fire you had for me is a tiny flake of ash
not enough to be absorbed by earth or wet by water
& you said you don’t love me anymore/ or dream of loving strawberry which was
your favourite thing/ and crave for pepper soup which softened your nose into water
& you said you are tired of painting/ on my body/ that all the watercolour you used
had washed away/ that you cannot trace your hands back to the history of my eyes/ lips/years of geographical bones earthquaked
& you whispered me away like the dying sigh of a kettle/ there is no remnant of me on your chin/ like the aftermath of spaghetti again
& you analyse how your own body forgot how I have ever sat in it/ how I have moved those boulders too heavy for Jesus when visiting/ & today after yesterday’s this day/ you send me a pigeon saying you treasure me/ but aren’t treasures meant to be polished and kept
& there are very few things that when dropped do not break on the outside/ I am one of them.
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Poem © Abiodun Salako
Image by ggallant from Pixabay (modified)