& quite frankly
I myself
thought God hurled
a hand on the road
to cause this much panic
on a hundred vehicles— & He
said: not me,
I have no hand in the making of
pale daylight & jagged roads.
& I believed him.
I believed, for once, that God
wasn’t responsible for anything.
& like a sprig floating
tentatively atop
a river, the thoughts come
back to me. Insular,
clear. Everything
thirsts. Even the bones
& debacles of lost ships
& foreign cargoes.
I hold on to the fat toe
of my burning country
& come face to face
with the man within— the breathing &
the well-travelled roads of the body,
ridden by desire, fueled by touch. E
Adagio for Knives
by
Prosper Ìféányí writes from Lagos, Nigeria. His works are featured or forthcoming in Transition, Magma Poetry, Black Warrior Review, Denver Quarterly, Poetry Wales, The Offing, and elsewhere.
