on the day my mother expelled me
from my apartment within her body,
my father purchased vinegar from the market
near the well at Sychar.
he sprinkled a bit on the rear of my tongue
to preserve every excellence my body will acquire.
placing his darkened lips on my forehead
signifies that my body is yours
even after it severs into neurons of dust.
having grown of age,
i’ve relinquished the monopoly
of transcribing bodies to matters of banalities.
it’s true, the earth entertained me much
like paris welcomes the commerce of a jealous
lover strolling in and out of the notre dame,
ogling the statue of the virgin mary.
despite asking fate to toss me
to the harshness of the pacific pole,
gravity inevitably brings me back home.
did you know that what is burnt before being born
is a free ash dancing to the strums from the whistling winds?
this morning, i’m enveloped by a song
in a parcel on the legs of a bird flying away to freedom.
tonight, my father sleeps wearing a camouflage made of prayer and fire,
a song pierces the quietude of darkness, and his ghost dances outside his body.
Ajise Vincent
Ajise Vincent is an Economist based in Lagos, Nigeria. His works have appeared in Jalada, Ake Review, Saraba, Bombay Review, and Birmingham Arts Journal, among others. He is a recipient of the Eriata Oribhabor Poetry Prize 2015 and Akuko Poetry Prize 2022. He loves coffee, blondes, and turtles.
