Hooke’s Law
(For Emmanuel Iduma)
They say affection is clay
& with my hands,
I shall forge a miniature stool
for you to sit on, while I am away
so the days don’t collapse
into hours that render minutes
that count seconds
that bite.
Time is not like the elasticated band of my underpants,
bought off a Brooklyn street store.
Time does not obey Hooke’s law.
I measure the distance between
devotion & practice; I split hairs trying
to catch a grain of faith.
I conquer passion by wiping window panes
clean of mist, bury angst & temptation
in shallow graves without epitaphs.
They say affection is clay
& kids always muddy their fingers.
Banana
(For Alpha Blondie)
She still haunts me,
that buxom Bugandan lady
who promised to shower me
with her waters.
I could tell from her smile
that her lips didn’t lie.
Neither would her hips.
She holds my left elbow
like a Kazuo Ishiguro title.
Stopping short of my hotel room door,
she says I’m entitled to every pleasure
I seek.
To heed her call would be to let my Id
into the playground. The bed is equipped
with a net to keep the mosquitoes out;
German Juice ferries itself
through window shutters. A fluorescent bulb
twinkles with disbelief when she mentions the word,
Kunyaza.
At dawn, I am many men:
Migos’ reincarnate and
Matooke is my word of choice.
They say the best way
to bait a Ugandan woman
is with a banana tree.
