Metamorphosis

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.

the bigger
i become,                              the faster it takes to lose my breath
to the market of                   wind.

By Wálé Àyìnlá 

Biography:

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.