Taiwo Hassan
OF THINGS THAT CAN’T BE FOLDED INTO METAPHORS
i have no vivid memory of ever hugging you.
but yesterday, after our phone conversation,
something about your last response felt like
frail arms, stretched and a warm body reaching to shield me,
as if to say this is what an embrace feels like, Táyélolú.
& suddenly, i'm torn between immersing myself in this
strangeness and allowing my body become a conductor for this
shock or leaving this as it is: just another bland feeling, a hot cup of tea that always seems to scald my tongue.
is this what it means to swallow the saliva of closure
& yet, watch your throat struggle at dissecting its accent?
here i am, beating heart, stubborn body and tired soul, trying to grapple with
the reality that some things can't be folded into metaphors
and loving a man is a poem filled with them.
the reality that in some delicacies, salt
can be sweet and tears can be everything but a plea of salvation, a flag soaked in blood.