The Will of the Unborn

By Majekodunmi Oseriemen Ebhohon

the creek behind our house is holding its throat
and is swallowing crude oil
like when I drink hot palm oil
and it burns my gullet

we are opening the air under the flare stack
and hot black soot is falling
and is settling inside my eyelids

and we are pushing a rusted pipeline
into mangrove mud
and broken periwinkle shells
and white fish bones are rising
slow in the shamed water

and a fisherman is casting his net under the gas flame
and burnt flakes are dropping into it
and he is boiling them again in a dented iron pot

and the river behind the jetty is folding in on itself
thick like spent engine oil
and I am searching for where
the water used to run

and we are laying old canoe planks for the roof
and the flare light is coming through every gap
and is biting my skin through the night

and a man in a yellow shirt
with seven red rays across his chest
is pouring crude oil on cassava ridges
and is standing there with his cutlass
and the ground is refusing everything green

and the mangroves are standing without leaves
and their roots are black
and glossy
like hands pulled from machine grease

and a white egret is dropping into the creek
and is not rising again
and its wings are stuck together

and we are leaving the drum in the corner
and chainsaws are crying inside the bush
and inside my skull
and under my feet

and we are sitting close to the flare pit
and I am putting my palm near the heat
and it is not the heat of wood

and my father is walking past me on the plank
and I am calling him
and he is not turning

and he is digging the riverbank with his fingers
and the roots are soft
and breaking
and smelling like fuel

and the mud is swallowing the spade
and something bitter is sitting in my throat
and I cannot push it out

and I am holding ash from the flare
and I am calling

and the creek is not answering

and so I ask the water
why it is taking so long
to finish what it has started