Poetry: October First
By Majekodunmi Oseriemen Ebhohon
I am adjusting the dials on the radio,
trying to clear the static from the capital,
while outside, the neighbourhood kids
are pinning paper flags to their bicycles.
Look closely.
Down the block, a man sits under the veranda,
his left leg resting on a wooden stool,
having declared independence from the spine
some decades ago.
While the right thigh trembles
from holding up the torso,
the left foot hangs loose at the ankle,
proud of its freedom from stress.
When a rogue mosquito lands on the shin,
the right hand slaps the air,
the lungs heave, and the teeth grind,
but it stays at ease.
Humidity is none of its business.
It just stares ahead like a retired statesman,
while the heart drums against the ribs
and the stomach argues with clean pots.
Later, when they lift it into the chair
to watch the parade on the screen,
it swings out over the rug,
waving to no one in the room.
