Israel Akinbode Poems

Tell my mother that am gone,
Tell her with cold words how the hot earth
Peeled my soles with dirty knives.
Tell her, she needs to know.
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Her fleshy paths laid on mat,
Gazing through her lane lustfully lost,
I want her! Take me through that lane.
Through the slippery laps of Delilah.
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Deep down this tricky thick forest,
Every tree with fearful leaves,
Teaching fruits how to taste bitter,
Eager I am to quench all.
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The drunk night woke in his vomit,
Staggering away as the moon snores to sleep,
I heard his voice down the street,
Telling all he will come again.
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Her back:
A land so plain,
Divided by a bridge,
The bridge leads to mountains,
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In ages past we sent letters to Freedom
With tattered inks on our dirty page,
The letters returned with beaming smiles,
Raising up flowers through our dried stem.
...