I used to have this dream where my father tosses us
into the ocean’s blue belly, & when we try to scream,
we would only scream water—language as bubbles
floating out from our mouths. Of course, it is nothing
but an outcome of worry. I am still the first child of
a marriage waltzing on the nape of a precipice, & like
some broken souvenir, my mother still keeps the
cursed family name. They still sit beside each other
in church while every God I know dies in my throat.
Swear to me you will not let either of them touch this
poem. Once, they tried to pray my worry away, built
a chapel in my room, used my pillows as cymbals.
& while they uttered each prayer, I refused to permit
the holy words, refused to amen my soft exorcism.
It is not cleansing but love I desire. Husband, take
your wife & flower a kiss upon her head. Wife, take
your husband & pluck out the sorrow from his lip.
Samuel A. Adeyemi is a young writer from Nigeria. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Palette Poetry, Frontier Poetry, 580 Split, The Maine Review, Leavings Lit Mag, Kissing Dynamite, The Shore, Jalada, and elsewhere. When he is not writing, he enjoys watching anime and listening to a variety of music. You may reach him on Twitter and Instagram @samuelpoetry