E. E. Sule
I claim
there is a morning in your eyes
that’s a wake of dying desire
almost ashy in the ember of my soul
its dew nourishes a tomorrow
used to be faint on shoulders of my dream
used to be shrunk in lime of world worries
there is a Christmas in your laughter
uncelebrated for a thousand years
full of splendour and rhythms of ages
its carols boom within my soul
my blood streaming in their strung rhythms
in a film of castrated thunders of time
there is a calabash of life in your huge hips
unconsumed by lusty men
preserved in the firmament of your virgin laughter
let me lay my head
on the mount on your chest
and live my morning
celebrate my Christmas
and eat of my calabash.