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trapped in my fingerprints, the traces are

not left on lines, rather, the smell of salt

buried in palms leaves a footprint of memories–

–and hope.

the air of whimpers serenades my life;

weight of memories in my head massages my

crossed leg. Modupe once asked if I could cross the roads in

Lagos without being led. maybe I should have told him

that the traces of lines on my palm lead me home.

my mother used to ask me why I took pride in tattooing my body with ink. I guess

my body is a piece of paper. was it?

sometimes, the levitical in my brother’s lyrics

unwraps balls of wasted passions and time

meant to be thrown back in time as childhood pasts.

and everytime I try to sleep, the moon won’t shine-

there are a lot of secrets in the dark of my sleep- so I wouldn’t see the paths.

so I leave a circle in my thumb to warn me to never

leave the boundaries as if “inyankanyan” means death. but still

I’m tensed; my stiff back won’t rest on the hard chair of comfort.

for now,

my fingerprints spreads over the missing disc.