The Virgin | by Oyin Oludipe

Branch of limbs in dust entombed;
Bust of the fossil pure,
Grains from a month's tillage loomed
In garb, a silk
Of skin, of milk
And scents that rose azure
A furtive itch raids the rind,
Next month will tremors spring
As bristles dense, sack the mind:
For who could think
Two clefts of pink
Would make the kennel sing?
The trench denied the wayward seed
A lesson for the pods
And wilting shells gave planters creed
On pores of woe
And hoes of throe
And coffins on the floods


Painting by Jet Martinez