Salute to Icheke by Okogbule Wonodi

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When did I cease to be

the bird that I have been;

was it that I have fallen

sullen at midstream,

or immersed earthwise

I have gone dusty with wives

that cook for men with irregularities

between their thighs?

No father.

I am yet your harp;

tune me but fingerly

and my strings will echo

songs of my inside.

I am your right hand,

I will mend your barn

and girdle my breath

for after this harvest

there’s the visit adults

and orphans will call

from windowless houses;

then will come the test

of my planting songs.