AFTER FLIGHT

FISAYO ADEYEYE

 
 

If I am his father, I am not good. There is nothing

gentle about me. My hands, the crown of feathers

 
I position on his scalp. If I am his keeper I am white flag,

candle milk dripping over an open flame, I am sea.

 
If I am his father, I am fishing him from the water,

cast-off child, salt beading his eyelashes.

 
I am pummeling him into waves and it is a question,

the uneven weight dictating his body causeway, canal.
 
The kestrels clipping through the water. I have seen him

sometimes with the men on the shore, counting their arrows.

 
Watching them empty the sky. If I am his keeper I am steeple,

I am eating their sound. If I am his father, he is fatherless.

 
 

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