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    recently, i have been hearing my name often
from the sea. olókun becomes an elliptical tool
swearing to make connection with all that holds


water in my body. i sulked on my middle finger

to grow seafoods, then azures this colorless water
    this is the chemistry behind yin and yang—all
    the five chakra points in me opening through a


geometry of energy-wheels. i held a scalpel all

    night, divided my body in two (upper body, lower
body), gave myself to the sea—like a blood moon
offering itself to a monsoon night. what i mean


is that the only sane way to get to the foot of the

sea is to turn the arms of the sea into a paddle-like.
    this poem is full of sea-verses; oceanic stanzas,
    metrical part of rowing, sesame oil, amniotic fluid


this is how i grew up: there’s always a calling to

    the bar. this is an opened lap. a lip wet-sticked.
a polychromatic soaked body. here, have your
way. nobody told me even sea sounds well for


a middle name. anglophone? or, sea-glophone?

Ogun, 2023



you hate to say it, but you’re still a
stranger that looks the world from afar.

there are beautiful gallows at each piazza
that opens the route to the royal family

—this path is dubbed by belladonna &
foxglove. Tell, which step shall you take

through the wild that won’t get you
vervained &; chillied like a bald warbler

at random nights where the beads on your
waist, nor the cowries shall jingle a sound

but your tongue isn’t safe, lingo rolls on
a wheel off your jaws & notes of sounds

are picked like tulips & cactuses. Brace
yourself up, wish everything you love adieu.

you’ve disked yourself out of your body,
the tunes you hum is of the west life. Your

home does not own you again, you’re but
a coiled snake in a sink that rambles words

as bubbles. Nobody hears you again,
you might just check your leg for the juice

of hemlock on your right sole & for
your left, buttercup is spilled all herein.

we don’t jeer our hands to curl up stained
fallen heroes around our cocoons. The lips

we once kiss you with, throw spits at you
now. No homecoming herein, yeah?

Ogun, 2021

Saheed Sunday, NGP V, is a Nigerian poet and HCAF member. His works appear in Shrapnel Magazine, Rough Cut Press, The Temz Review, Brittle Paper and elsewhere.



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