in that dream,
you are carrying
a bucket of water
from the backyard
to the kitchen where
our mother called you
at the top of her voice
& as you rushed through
the small dark corridor
of the old brown house
we used to live in ogunleye
you slipped & fell & laid
there, silent in the way
language forsakes the
tongue; the ship of
your body unable
to turn itself
towards
shore.