If I talk about the inward aspects of a good bone
I remember Nnewi & the mad dogs that roam there.

I want to speak on abortion, but my mother will sew
My lips shut even if it is the last thing her frail hands

Can do. I remember the white light the first time I
Nearly died, I guarded the pages of my life, careful

Not to spill what was inside or rip it somehow—
Somehow I think it is the sickly smell of another day

Hovering over us like the tattered wings of a hawk.
The small god that guards me is rum-hungry &

Chicken-famished; what it sounds like is a bird breaking
Small twigs against brown skirted roofs. You do not know

How this small life of yours unfurls itself in your wake.
How everything passes through it like loose buttonholes.

Everything about your life is theoretically correct but
The monophony of your being here. I tell my mother about

My friend who did an abortion & was worried about
Where the baby was at now; she said: that youngin’ brave

As hell, I hope God quietens the wild fire in her—
I swing my legs like an anchor & wonder what it means

For God to quieten one’s fire. I imagine my friend,
Wandering through a field laced with blood-stained hyacinths

Searching for a baby she did not know was not there,
Hair tipped with smoke & eyes hooked to the kite of heaven.

The inlaid chants of stiff-necked tulips & birthwort cheering
Her on. In that reverie, mother said: hope you ain’t ‘that friend’?