LOCKED DOWN

The bums of a slay Queen have been planted home.

She’s moulting slowly like a lizard

The sun is stubborn.

It shines even at home.

Her light skin is slowly walking back to her toddling days.

Cosmetic shops have gone to sleep.

Cutex is fading away.

Saloons are locked.

The goddess of coloring is shading tears.

The bums of a slay king have been planted home.

They are now a hot charcoal stove.

He’s staring in the clouds wishing this corona could go.

He misses driving borrowed cars.

He misses deceiving the daughters of Eve along the road.

His feet are seriously itching.

He keeps cursing the dog which licked them.

Curses amount to nothing.

The god of idolary is wailing.

The fingers of a slay Queen have been put to doom.

The steam  of hot banana leaves is burning

The old woman is lucky.

Kitchen helpers are many.

She will not run after daughters to transform to wives.

The birds are at her finger tips.

And will soon turn to potential wives

The hands of the old man will rest from ox plough.

Too much male labour at home.

No garden work, no eating.

The mingling stick of the old woman is not generous to lazy boys.

A man is meant to defeat  an ox.

There’s no excuse anymore.

The old man is moulding potential husbands.

@Sarah Acham, 2020

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