Sunset at Crossroads by Dara Omotoso

i

For how long did you try to fight your death? All the colognes you wore to hide the smell of time passing through your body. How much of time, do you have now? It is the same lie the man with the camera tells himself, that time, like the lei. For how long did you try to fight your death? All the colognes you wore to hide the smell of time passing through your body. How much of time, do you have now? It is the same lie the man with the camera tells himself, that time, like the lenses are his tool. The first time you were aware of your death was your first bath, you cried in defiance. You were always a reaction against your body, the way god leaves his hands at the mercy of hell’s gatekeepers.nses is his tool. The first time you were aware of your death was your first bath, you cried in defiance. You were always a reaction against your body, the way god leaves his hands at the mercy of hell’s gatekeepers.

ii

I want to help you mirror your vulnerability.

iii

A burning cathedral taught me how to grieve. Weave your loss into the multitude. Let your loss be mirrored through all the faces that hide the fear whose language is inexpression. The priest said the only way to escape time, was to think outside of words. When next time colludes with your weakest link to flash those images before you, don’t cry; knock.

iv

There is a reason why death finds a home between the groins of little boys, but he doesn’t tell. Yesterday, I looked so hard in my brother’s face for a sign; why do you still pray in your dead father’s name, when you kneel at the temple?

v

The gatekeeper is saying something about shadows and epiphanies. How your body is what remains after you have watched all the boys who walked the sunset with you turn into earthen pots of flame where stillbirths come to pray.

vi

You who made art from holding your reflection so hard in different mirrors, just so maybe you will recognize your life this time. Faith?Fate? Then death slowly begins to stare at you.

vii

You are just a page, sharpening your body so hard for wars whose prize is smoke.

viii

At funerals, I mourn myself in advance. I say to my body; there is a stream where trembling hands come to wash without ever catching a glimpse of their bent shadows.

<br>

Also by Dara, A Memory of Un-becoming: Changing my Body

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *