Rivers above and below, hear my voice. A ripple is how you speak. A pour is how you sing. I sing with both feet in vestigial bodies. By the stitch of the skies in me, I call you forth to this dance. In the epigenesis of silence, you forged the ways. The womb of the world was sedentary until you fed its first seed, broke it to light with your wet voice. You raised the first song to the dawns. The thunderbirds harvested it from there. The winds scrapped their leftover screams. The trees mothered the first mother—clay-skinned, sea-eyed. She disgarnished the grief from the magic, and passed it down through the amnion lake of birth, down and down and down to me. I have reaped your gaze and ears. I have reaped your voice and here I ripple towards you. Out of the shy skies, pour. Out of the throat of the sun, sing.

© 2026 Olumide Manuel