Black Songs

The body is not the story. 

It thrusts deep into permeable 

coven of burnt skins. 

It's not the wallowing waves 

sieving into shores; 

not the green—yellow facets 

of prunes & vineyards. 

Not mamas' voice echoing 

through walls.

Look well enough, My history 

is not a song crawling off stereos 

like chirpings of nightingales 

nesting in palmtrees. 

It's a melodic refrain 

at the crass of my heart. 

It composes rhythm and I 

hums rendition of the b r o k e n verse.

©Timileyin O. Adepoju