Olaitan Humble
give back my soul & take my body

in this one / my mother is a back pain—
the reason i can't lay to bed since three fortnights.

she places her age-old cauldron over
my head as if a fire

burning wild in blue flame. she never asks 
why i disappear in scenes of combustion

or stash waves of various wavelengths
at my migraine's fingertips.

this is what we give; my mother and i
—that we give to make peace since

 she has all the answers hung by the
dusty corners of her boudoir.

i look & look & look—
this is what she gives; my mother

—that she gives to make peace
or blink my tears away

or turn the telly off of those who watch as grief
envelopes an innocent boy like a

cocoon does a budding butterfly.
this is what i give; i—the butterfly

learning how not to do what i do best—to fly
or to make do with the remains of fire on my palms.