“A Tumour with No Colour” by Olúwádáre Pópóọla

I looked at life snuffed out of a black man

like he were my mother’s pagne,

lunging from the shadows of blue uniforms like 

earth escaping flood, ark seeking land.


I wasn’t there but I know him and how his skin pores broke into bells

that couldn’t take a screaming mouth past a broken crucifix,

his balding head forging the soil of my room

where scalps look the end of a map.


I know the taste of his mother’s kitchen,

salt and jalapenos dicing away joy into edible morsels.


Just breathe!

uniforms can be tragic flaws.

Death is a multiformed man in regalia,

and it is not the colour you had in mind.


I know how the morpheme of body is transformed into morphs that break the sky into tears, skin slitting in amerikka.

Skin is of course all that matters

when a blue ribbon streaks down asphalt,

when a thrush defeats a song,

when twigs gain life to become phasmids.



Olúwádáre Pópóọla is a poet or so he thinks, a student of Microbiology and a Sports Writer for a media company. He writes from a city by rocks and longs to see the world without discrimination of any form. He is learning how images are made from words and his poems are up/forthcoming on Mineral Lit. Magazine, Headline Poetry & Press, Feral: A Journal of Poetry & Art, Roadrunner Review and ang(st)zine. He can be reached on Twitter: @Kunmi_sher
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