I insured my grief and the inherited hatchets. 

I want them buried for a century, at least. 

I jiggled beads around a gourd that couldn’t hold wine,

to remind everyone of my oaths to love this country. 

Sometimes, love comes in a parcel of rice straws

or takes the shape of a gourd, fractured beyond shape. 

Ṣẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀ kíì ròde ìbànújé, no one brings a Ṣẹ̀kẹ̀rẹ̀

to a room where its walls have pictures covered in dust.

When I sleep, my mind clones itself and wanders

beyond every boundary. The songs I memorized

nurture my dream, so I remember the origin of my scars.  

In an altitude where the clouds are visibly the shape of drums, 

I think of trees that resist floods and storms, 

I think of the celebrations where the gourd is left to rest.