Peach Friday.

ember lipsticks, lips parch ajar.
mirror holds filigrees of elegance

pinkish regalia, purplish sandals
the shape of a spinning tornado

mama’s in the kitchen slicing Ugwu
the way she does to xmas cockerels

nkechi’s is breaking lemon
the way she breaks into a song ‘nnem oo nnem oo’

the kettle’s muttering rapidly
drowning Nkechi’s voice into hers.

i swing this way, like that
the way an African does under the sun

if he smiles at me that way
i’d pretend to bite his lips then chew him

He’s going to love it like that.
i sneak into his arms

we frenzy before loud radios
the type that sinks the bass but tenor

hearts intertwined in locks of embrace
his burning breath chases my icing fears

feeling safe in a teacher’s, being 18,
not asking for roses but romance

i moan [nnem] —a song of passion
He, in salt & water under groans & thrusts.

i crawl into the foot of the garden
a tortoise praying home for survival.

whispers under breaths [nkechi]
at half opened windows. till the body of the wallpaper

growls & scowls. I’ll
rumple lust between evangelism.

the brethren who plucks my smiles
with winks and grins explores my rudiments

like Mr. Jacob the biology teacher.
before I allow a thrust from sleep

i’ll put my eyes on the bible & throw
my thoughts around the passion’s conventions

with the brethren and teacher.
later his regards sending to Nnem

and she saying: ‘Mr. Jacob’s such
a good teacher and godly brethren’

My eyes chuckling at her eloquence.
I ‘pretend Mr. Jacob didn’t have my nectars.’

this is how a teen drowns in thoughts
on a peach friday of licentiousness.

© Nome Patrick.