One-hundred and Fifty-four: Banga Lala

Eriosema cordatum.
Your voice floats in me like a thousand corks at sea.
Don’t you be staring at my woman like that.

Nothing about me made sense with you:
I drank hot tea on summer nights, sugarless,
because I was already syrup for you.
I was coy and awkward,
yanking words out of me like clanking chains.
Usually I am silky and colourful,
swallowing up men just for the hell of it.

It smelt like the African sun.
I have never been to Africa.
And I have never been to you.
But I don’t need to go to know you.

Stupid girl.
I mouthed promises to you
and you grabbed them with your fists.
I didn’t know it was going to the last time I see you.
How could I?
It was the night you gave me memories of musty whispers:
this summer, our music, my woman.

My woman.
I loved your faux-jealousy.
That dog loved me.
You were surprised.
Now I’m surprised.
Now I know that you are a dog too.

That night I dreamt
that there was a stranger in my bed.
When I woke up, I saw you,
and realised that the dream hadn’t stopped.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

2 thoughts on “One-hundred and Fifty-four: Banga Lala”

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