i gaslight the bark of a baobab tree

my mouth is a dancehall, ricocheting different music at a time. that means
i can lyric grief now & bleach to happiness later. i can hold a leaf & call it a
carve paper, color into green. the nightsky can bear me witness: how i once
ask it if it was sure the stars were really stars & not talcum dust, sprinkle
from space. my mother can witness: how she once saw me licking my wound
& i claim i wheezing air to wry the blood. yesterday, i break, for the first time,
into the forest like a loose water from dam. my father said gruesome dwell
among the trees. example, the baobab that womb abiku. my palm serpentine
through the bark & shred a piece. the forest must have heard the echo of the
cracking. the hoopoe takes a watch_stand & twitter through the forest. flutters
babble the silence. a roar tear through the forest & cut a piece of my heart. i
sprint back home, my heart running faster than me. when i return home,
my father see the bark & made to whack my head. but i said it’s not baobab,
but that of conifer. he said it is baobab, & i debate, juxtaposing the likeness. his
face carve a puzzle, stares back at uncertainty, questioning if old age has
not rob him of his knowledge of nature & myths.

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Poem © Olayioye Paul Bamidele
Image: Pixabay remixed