Ọlákìtán Aládéṣuyì

one poem

Bury me tomorrow

this body is not a marketplace—that is to say I am tired of people coming and leaving as they please.

I am alone in a room with the ghost of my father's promises

lying on this floor where father—a man, a traveller, once played god and offered sacrifice to an empty shrine

the wind sings my name—bastard child, like my mother once called me

bastard child, my mother once called me.

in my body are girls waiting for daddy to come home.

under the full moon, we bathe our nakedness in promises

who is in the garden

a little fine girl

can I come and see her?

Yes, oh yes

I’m coming to see her

so we lie in wait, for a promise that never comes

& all the girls I know are in a garden, waiting for the promise of a father who never comes

and mother who keeps cutting us into bits, into sizes edible for a man who is coming tomorrow

riding on a white horse, to save a little fine girl—flower, from a garden.

from a mother that keeps cutting us.

Ọlákìtán Aládéṣuyì is a writer who works as a Software Developer / Data Analyst by day and writes at odd hours. Her works have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Watershed Review, Down River Road, Memento, Agbowó Art, The Lit Quarterly, Newfound Journal, Kalahari Review, and others. She is the winner of the Lawrence Foundation award for best story in Prairie Schooner in 2019.