If sex were a flower head, as it is meant to be,
I’d respond to sunlight better than to rain.
 
If only I could convert the positives in life
to food but I’ve always gorged on the past.
 
Maybe you’d have to have been a child whose
father died to understand. You take what you have
 
and weave story cloaks from them. I’d be
a sloe berry, best picked after the first frosts.
 
Have you ever noticed that moorland plants  
carry on growing however often the mists
 
entangle them? I’m woody now, thick-stemmed
and when I sway in the wind I rage up a ruckus
 
before my fruits fall. See those moor ponies
with their unfriendly ways? When I sing
 
into the cold, they nestle against my shoulders
and breathe their warmed air with mine.

I Know Of A Boy

i know a boy. raised & bred
in a land defined as "abject infertility"
 
by his dead father's friends & frenemies.
yeah. i know of a boy whose hind skin
 
always kisses the earthen-chilled floor
every night. inside his father's, now
 
his, paradise– the hut. tilted. half covered
with dried palm fronds. the other half
 
lost to the ferocious & unconcerned wind.
he barely sleeps in the long & crawling nights.
 
yet wakes to the first cock-a-doodle-doo
of his old mama's cock & set out
 
for the farm. shrithing all alone
like a lost black bird navigating the cloudy
 
sky. when nature calls & illness strikes
him with a big cudgel. who is he to
 
lie back without mustering the minuscule strength
in his wretched body & set out for the farm again? lest he
 
be screwed by ulcer-causing hunger till
he draws his last breath. like it did his father.

​Au revoir As A Metaphor For Forever
 
sitting all alone. on this old squeaking
bench. outside my father's house.
with my back leaning with comfort
on this chilly wall. & eyes fixing the
moonlit sky. romancing the warm
company of the beautiful stars. the
thoughts of the last time we met
meander through my mind. we sat
on this same old bench. not minding
the blistering cold. or the chirping
of hundreds of crickets. or the hooting
owls in a stone throw from us. you
submitted your head on my shoulder
& i had my hands curled around you
like a blanket. my booming MP3
player playing ed sheeran's Perfect.
you gazed at me from the corner of
your eyes. your alluring eyeballs
radiated into mine. & said "i will always
be here for you…" & climaxed it with
"au revoir" & a kiss planted on my
forehead. hands of time ticking at
light's speed. it's been years within
a twinkle of eyes. yet still no words.
i scourge & scourge every nook &
cranny. alas  "au revoir" is a metaphor
for "forever". so much for "i will always
be here for you". wish i could run into
the speed force & go back to that night
to stop you from finish articulating the
statement. or cease the ticking hands of
time. it's same sky i look at now. yet the
stars are out of place without you around.

 About the author: 
Olayioye Keji Akintunde, studies Pharm.D at the University of Ibadan, Ibadan, Nigeria. His writing explores the self,contradiction and contemporary realities. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming on Inertia Teens, Spillwords, Nnọkọ Stories and elsewhere. Besides Pharmacy & Poetry, he's intrigued by good & soul-reaching music. He's nicknamed Catechol. He tweets @Catechol01, & is @Catechol1 on IG.