Months ago I stood here, Lesi, before he who should have been your father, broken in lovingness. Knees knocked against each other, I drowned in coyness. He held my head in his velvety palms, tilted it upwards so that he stared at my soul. I couldn’t see his eyes; its glistening truthfulness, to match same with his words but I listened to his poetry. He stroked my hair and said it was on my forehead that sunrise found purpose. He asked for my lips, then my thighs and crept further.
Tonight, may earth’s fingers soak itself in his fluid.
By Bura-Bari Nwilo
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