By Babatimehin Asiwaju
what kind of poet am I
if I cannot write a poem
about the first time my lips
collided with a beautiful damsel's?
if I cannot write without
entombing dead things
inside my mouth.
as if I wasn't under a dimly-lit stairway
with f—she, fair & beautiful.
the world, staying still
& my heart, jumbling-up the rhythm of its beat,
as my tongue
walked the corridors of her mouth.
this is me saying
my lips still stretch into a smile
anytime I think of that night--
like the tenderness of her kiss
is just fresh upon it—sweet
as stolen waters. tell me,
what kind of poet cannot make a muse
of his first love?
because even now,
this is not that
poem. this is just me,
if I truly left to save her.
if I am still capable of retaining love.
if I should have ended this poem
on a sad note.
Babatimehin Aṣíwájú is just another (lost) boy/that seeks refuge in poetry. He has works published/forthcoming in Brittle Paper, Kalahari Review, African Writer Magazine, and Synchronized Chaos.