In the hard slog of June, woolgathering,
I saw you
Wagtail on a tangled branch
Plowing the uterus of the season, to
be born—-
The sky, an oozing scalp of teardrops
Blinding broomstick like the flaming fingers
of Agbara across my windowsill
A baby whimpering, wiggling, a squirming
worm in the sky
Crossing the threshold of the season
Of the comings and goings, of the goings
and comings—–
Dark grotto of Mother Idoto. This birth, your
purgation. Samsara of the telluric cycle
Hatched from your eggshell July. I,
eggcorn of the apocalypse
Eclipse of a nebulous solstice
The amniotic sac of the pregnant sky
Burst before the midwife. A baby cried.
Cradling in my palm, at the break of dawn,
July—–
A sprig of holly at the backyard, dancing to
the kettledrums of your birth
Happy tendrils snaking into tether
Water pebbles bestrew on my veranda
And all the earth, dressed up in green
clothes—-
Fanfare of wobbling bells in sky, from the
spire of Amadioha
As Town Crier of your birth, my birth
Avatar of our pantheon; Nelson Mandela,
hound of our literati; Wole Soyinka
And Okunkpor, the ugly masquerade that
unearth dirty secrets….
We, the flaming fingers of your hand
We that sucked your amniotic liquid—-
An uncastrated fully-fledged he-goat,
reliquary of python tooth, red chalk and
a calabash of hallowed palm wine for
your rite-of-passage
July, the emissary of the birth of the sages
