Sleeping Samson

Lay my head on the altar of your lap— Mo fé sun l’órí ìtẹ́ ife rẹ hush of midnight drums pulses through my veins, a drum I cannot name, yet know by memory— ẹ̀fú of forest shadows slipping into my skin, where every hair stands witness to your absence. Here, shame dissolves to palm oil, ìtìjú ń yọ̀ sí ìdákẹ́jẹ́ rẹ (melting into the broth of your silence) and I am kolanut split open, I speak in tongues of ochre and ash, calling fire into the hollows of my chest; a choir of locust wings unfolds beneath my ribs, singing orin ìrántí—the song of all forgotten things. My fingers map the ridges of your quiet, tracing the secret geography of your breath, each ridge a promise I have not yet learned to keep. Each breath you breathe is mercy— humming Harmattan’s psalm, scritched soft against the winter in my marrow Tell me, ẹni òwú—beloved— Ṣé èyí ni ìsinmi tó pé lẹ́nu ọrun? Is this rest, or heaven’s sly delay? Or the sweetest theft of time?