Last night, I dreamt I had fallen into the moon where shadows offered consolation for a wound that wasn't theirs. They grieved in a language that couldn't be translated. Tonight, I dream the sky is transparent. I hide under my skin & pin my tongue to the hem of night. Watch how I build like worship at the hands of dawn with a distance that tastes like nowhere. My body is stretched into another currency. I can't afford to mourn the passing of the sun; I am trained to find my way in the dark. Every poem is a dream. I shred my skin into stars, wing myself to the edge of space, grow fond of locking face with the moon. I burn with the night; how many nights to burn with the night? I keep space for the sky in my belly and request to invent light. It is false vulnerability to align with something that has no translation in your language. I discover every night is a colonized history, another diluted way to lose one’s skin.
Oluwafisayo Akinfolami is a penultimate student of history and international studies. Her poems have appeared on Poetry Potion, Writer Space Africa, Praxis Mag Online, Undivided Magazine and elsewhere.