Elegy
Fidel is dead; his year of birth is a rhyming
one—the year of Elizabeth II’s birth,
the year my father was born in Warri.
Who remembers the names of the women
perched between thighs to enact the ordinary
act of gathering the slippery bloody flesh?
Their survival is another rhyming song;
to think that there in Cuba or England
or Nigeria, there may well have been
a cottage in the woods, abandoned suddenly—
a missionary leaving to follow a wife