by Enos Kwaku Dade Boadu


Where are those songs that rang murky when I first met him?

Where are those fluid melodies that nectared through my ears

and  cheerfully opened my every pore with his little little fingering tapping?

Where are those repeating days that closed my eyes and squeezed my soul to eat and savor the bulky bliss of his lips thawing every lip of me?

Where are those moments and nights when he dripped his rough softness in me and me all about him

and soaking every beat of the rhythms that our rubbing bodies played, and widening and widening our pores to drinking the mead of the black hole of our seeming ever-revolving souls?

Where are those tears, those watery claps from my obese heart that cooled and teased my trembling cheeks?


But, oh, see those seeming cooling and warmth and those tickles of moisture! All were mockeries and


All those songs and melodies, those dreamy days, those moments and nights ― those rushes of blood biting redemption is all dusts and ashes

Dusts and ashes like the faces and whispers and the memories of he who has ghosted my soul and still wounds the ghost


But the clot in the womb would throw the poison away

Now this child, this cheek-soft daughter, this smiling pound of memories, this innocent and staring two O’s

blunts and deadens all the daggers


Now it is Sunday morning

But the stomach knows no Sabbath to halt the aching

and, Oh my child, my cheek-soft and nothing-stomached daughter

Sorry you are pass milking, and I, pass those Bethlehem and Canaan breasts

And, you, ancient soul, may bite my teat again if I give you these Gomorrah breasts again


Oh my cheek-soft and pitiful faces darling

We always ask, but we never receive

except for eyes which shame, and cheeks which crack to mock, and loins and tongues

which seek me another doom and after-tastes of the memories about your father


Sunday morning

And our ears and all are charged with the songs and the voices of the church


Sunday morning

And the hymns of the church come to tease our vengeful stomachs


Can we too enter those chapels and seek for food

for loving that does not ash or turns dust

for hearts that would tremble like our tired knees

to mingle and humor me with you my darling ―the filling of your belly and all

with those bites and chewings and down-washings

that grow and flower and fruit smiles and giggles and speeches and good worrying?


Can we too enter those chapels? ― No!

Because I remember the same town that shame and mock and sneeze us off their paths

Are the same enchanting songs and voices of the church ―


Sunday morning

And as you sleep on, my sweet cheek-soft darling ―as you sleep on

I too am rehearsing those songs and melodies and rhythms that still sing and mime and ring my present

I too am rehearsing those daring charms that chain and undream the weaker souls

I too am rehearsing those motions that hold the mead cup of life and crashing it to the memory of sour scars


Sunday morning

And when you wake up, my sweet cheek-soft and nothing-stomached darling ―when you wake up

We shall drink from the chief fountains of the dreams you wail for


Sunday morning

And when you wake up, and when you up, and when you wake up ―

We wake up till eternity and a leap night!



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