I train my feet to walk the rain home
and back into my skin.
the road spreads on my knees organized,
as fractions touching the nail
on God’s fingers.
His voice is the music
building goosebumps from my head
to the tail of the grip
of the ground on father’s
face. i wear the skin
of language: the
delicate flag that fans a dance of flame
into a cubicle of memories. the dead song
on my lips
is an album dedicated to the
lovers that narrow a gutter out
of a boy, the warmth of a stillwater.
the first ilẹ̀kùn
i open is a whale of loneliness.
i become, the faster it takes to lose my breath
to the market of wind.
By Wálé Àyìnlá
Wálé Àyìnlá is a 20-year-old Nigerian writer and poet who writes from the ancient city of Abeokuta. His works appear or are forthcoming on Brittle Paper, Kalahari Review, Prachya Review, Dwarts, Expound, and others. His poem, Little Boys are Large Exit Doors was a finalist in the Kreative Diadem Poetry Prize, 2017. He is @Wale_Ayinla on Twitter.