Leftover

Leftover

P.S:  Memorabilia
You left it lying on the floor,
beside the laundry box,
a kind of slough,
keepsake.

& this was how caution peeled off
in a rush of adrenaline and desire;
& this was how we made hasty decisions,
remade Eden.

There is nothing impossible with a few drinks.
nothing insurmountable, not even celibacy;
if it is dodgy like two left shoes,
if it is bulging like a phallic tumescence,
if it is throbbing like a thumb whitlow,
worrisome like an obstinate mom
tactile like a jock’s itch,
trembling like a maiden wife.

There is nothing impossible for soft lights,
soft music. Red lights cast flimsy
shadows on burgundy bedspreads.
Robert Kelly spells b-o-o-t-y;
We catch fire.

Lagos is locked out,
we are stowed away.
The grind of tires on asphalt
are eons away from this room,
this room where your bosom
holds primacy. Perky nipples
betray anxiety too like fidgety eyes.
It is always a first time.

This seduction began long before
we threw casual hellos.

This seduction blossomed over time
from a distance. We once interred
it under a shallow canopy of laterite.

Did it rot or sprout?
Did it sprout or germinate?
Did it germinate or flower?
Did it flower or blossom?

-Dami Ajayi