Faruq Shitta A Girl's Body is Fire

A Girl’s Body Is Fire

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Most times, a girl carries hot scars
like a cross,
on the back of her tongue.

She is writhing – An earthworm
singing in pains after it is washed
with choking salts.

She is an alter for the worship of
her bones – candles and Bibles. Light and Hymns.
And how a hoe is used on a farm; I imagined
the sacredity of her thighs turning into flames of
Sacrilege. Formulas starting from the bottom to the linear
Equations of her bruised breasts.
Mar – to – mar – ticks. This equation shuns
her pride.

Last night, her lover was saltwater:
a compartment for the worship
of beautiful lust. a knife in a mother’s mouth
is another way of saying silence. He
is piercing it in bits – he who does that
profane against God and his writ inscribed on stones.

Every time she is hummed into painful thrusts,
the windowpane crash against its cracky
Thumb. He who laughs last laughs best.
Her body is fire. Even her mother does not
know the stings that hurt the back of her legs: she
only wraps herself – like a log of wood, she stretches
there for long moments singing to every
falls the stars create for themselves.

I remember her loud wails assailing me like The
Children Of The Night. Bullet pushed in strong rifles,
pleading for freedom. She wakes me up from my reluctant
dreams of war holding
my hands up; her spirit whispering justice.

Night is light

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even the food we chew with our strong teeth
is a twin brother to the wind’s wings. we hold our stomachs.
it sounds crackly & our mouth laughs a thousand
laughters like those daughters that wear innocence
under their skin.
mother’s soup scents nice. like the cricket game
the songs of these birds won. we play in the deserts of
our hungry stomach & run with our pride to
the promised land of satiation.
we belch. its aroma is a boy that sits on his father’s lap
looking into his tender palm.
& on that tree that houses leaves that leaves me to live
like the fish & the cold water. there are fruits that tasted good, like the mouth of a girl lover. there are branches;
those long ones, cracked, and egged with love.
that is why i am a happy boy.
we are happy snails, wrapped in the shell of quietude.
we turned into broken elation, shredded like that glass
love moulded with his palm.
we puke love. and loves pukes us

About the Author

Shitta Faruq Adémólá is a Nigerian Writer and Poet as well as a prospective Lawyer. He is always available, at any moment, where reading is Live. He loves to read short stories and ‘rich’ poetries. He writes on Love, everything on beauty that is beautiful, and despair. He has works and forthcoming in; The Trouvaille Journal, Eskimo Pie, Down In The Dirt, A Country Of Broken Boys; Boys Are Not Stones Anthology, Songs of Peace; an Anthology for peace and elsewhere.

Omotayo Jones
obinnajones5@gmail.com
An addict with the pen. A student of mathematics and physics, Twitter troll, Facebook comedian and all-round human.

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