My lover is a furry beast, except at the tail.
I want to skin him and make myself a coat
before the harmattan gets here. The cold is
always curling in, claws becoming a fist.
I’ve survived this long because I hold
my weight in smoke for the whole of December.
My lover kept my skin warm. Now he heats
my stomach. Hurt people hurt people, etcetera.
I keep him permanent inside me. The brown
broth was a true delight. Viscous stew, steaming
& thick with palm oil. A little too much salt,
but I swear I haven’t cried since then. I shaved
my lover’s head for a thicker quilt, made a pipe
out of his thigh bone. More smoke for me.
Most days, I swear I am only alive because of
my shivering. What I built was a fire, inside
this house, which my lover built, his hands
rugged as a steel sponge. I live forever by
the threshold, afraid of the chill, watching the fog
crawl close. When there is nothing left to burn,
I will oil my lamp & wick with the little fat under
my own skin, then go to join them. All the people
I have scalded, calling out for me. Through
mouthfuls of mist, I quietly name them in return.
