Ada, I carry with grace
warmth dances on the crevices of my skin
honey leaks from the borders of my chin
will our maker approve of our feminine embrace?
we hum our quiescent tune
singing sweet songs of the west
while coddling and stroking a bees nest
our early leaf’s a honeymoon.
only in shadows, our affair thrives
sweet, like the fruit carried on the young aunt’sy carrying fruit on her head
eerie, like the wise old man warning us of what’s ahead
how will we escape when the sun meets its rise?
you grip my hand, tight like the gele you tie,
and say, “I believe all African children can fly.”