Wale Owoade
Before the War
A man’s voice fills the room
with laughter like rain washing
our rooftops. The radio plays
eighties. A woman bakes fire.
A girl crushes ants with her blue sneakers
while she paints her fingernails.
The road leads to dust. Children
litter the street like missiles.
Men and women offer their
bodies to the sun. The freedom of music
and the moan of sex. Light travelling
through dreams. Newspapers.
Fingers cuddle cigarettes, empty
beer bottles, highlife with reggae touches.
Jazz, pop, hip-hop, parties’ heart beat
at four a.m, a couple kissing down
St. Patrick street, pointed nipples,
hard cocks murmurs in the darkness.
Condoms and multiple orgasms.
Selfies and snapchat, flat batteries
and Facebook, barbecue and pepper
soups. The breath of mint and cheap
perfumes that sit in the back of the throat.
Candlelight dinners. Plastic roses.
The light going out.
Benediction
She escaped the room with
a lake spilling down her legs.
Her body rained red, and her breath
stinks of someone’s beer.
Dew stuck on her thighs and
matted her hair like mud.
Once she wore bright coloured
necklaces, fat braids, palm cakes,
wetlips, her body a canvas
so boys and scars are
brushstrokes. The breeze rode
her torn blue dress and
left her open. That body,
an altar where the boys offer
prayers. They burnt woods on her.
They left the flames to rise.
