About the author
Lind Grant-Oyeye was born in Nigeria. She has published works in several magazines in various countries. She contributed, through poetry, to the cultural project on the Greek economic crisis, an anthology of poems on the migration/refugee crisis, and won the human rights poetry award of the UHRSN. She has published a chap book of poetry: The gift: twelve days of Christmas, and also just completed her first full collection of poems.
Each night, my dreams tell me that we were born same day, to a world
we had both anticipated but
you slowly died as I grew and searched for a place to hold
another dream, a place to bury confusion.
It was neither a lack of sunlight nor
the absence fertilized soil you landed that put you to sleep –
remember the first time those words came
flying like double edged swords,
while Jimmy and Jane did the jiggly jigs and reels, our favorite Irish steps
as if they forgot we had attended grammar class
together- piercing words like a hunter’s sling shot.
How I tried to exhume you as seen on TV -forensic files,
a wish to make you my own for life.
Did I know roses and lilies are
only dreamed flowers made for romance series?
Remember the first time that fist slowly curled.
Remember those colorful words,
how Jonathan’s flowers for me never made it out of
the honeymoon suite as we made our way home to Lagos.
Remember how I didn’t feel it was a crazy idea to search the
back garden for the treasures lost some place else.
How I dig daily, hands soiled, face windswept, eyes scotching.
I search for that dream where my mam said
a woman’s place is not to search for that which
no longer belongs to her,
as I hear her say what is gone is gone.
mheas féin- self esteem in Irish
I wish for words to write
about you, it is almost all about
How you softly sang songs
stolen from unknown FM
Stolen with gloved prints
which left no
I carefully listened to
pelting rock like rain
wash finger prints
slowly away , tune
rusty antenna to missing
Waves lost to earth, to sky
between you and stale
I am a lost African
Are you African?
Are you lost?
We search for our motherland.
Is this motherland?
Do you search?
I hang hope on trembling grounds
Do you tremble too?
Do you hope?
Glossary: l’enfant perdu: the lost child
Sp~la~ tt ~ ere ~ d bones
Pa,I wish you had whispered once or twice,
waved those yellowed old signs we exhumed yesterday.
I wish you had spoken of wait times, overburdened
healers and sleepless nights.
How time comes to us, not a slow healer.
but one who gazes on dehiscent wounds.
Lessons my mother almost taught me
I come to you almost contrite as I was the day
we became and I longed to be me as I was.
Remember how we shared our thoughts from our
bassinets solemnly and gazed into the
untouched tomorrow, undefiled. We had found
peace in the dreamed posterity that would have
been us. We tried to grow like the strong
bamboo trees which decorated the fading landscapes.
We smelt the aroma of the decadent treats from
fired clay pots as we hoped for fires in our bones.
But you my sister, was cracked with the cracking
Sound of dawn, the wakefulness which became
your reality. How we danced with the steps made
for beauty as we celebrated your sun set with the
dawn of dew and we listened to the chatter of
the clan as they talked about the strength of
your thighs. How they felt it was as special as gold
as you tried to make your way into womanhood.
It was your shrieking shout, piercing the eerie air
which taught me about your pains, your treasure
violated. Remember we heard the roaring talking drums,
celebrating the forced sensibility of your sensuality.
How you grew like me but found no footstool
on your dreamed road , our cradles pulled
in different directions. I come to you almost contrite
for being me and you, you.