Argo, My Argo

The mirror’s clubfooted,
not me. Afro’s gone Medusa again.

Every coil’s its own Hydra.
I’m adventuring with a comb.

The sink’s full of myths...
The myths are growing...

Everyday I find myself
smaller with effort,

my life’s light
with every person who

spoke of me. Last night,
Achebe tried again

and I nearly heard him.
Ngũgĩ refuses these tones, says,

this music has the worst sort
of oceans beneath it.

Besides, his ears
are busy with real myths…

Being alive must be nice,
says the sink-basin, filling

further with myths…
I say, abandon narrative,

latch on to landlocked
home— forget ships,

take planes! land with
passport on to place

with shore— forget ships,
take planes! land with

passport back to place
without shore— forget ships

for a day sometime on
winter break, during summer—

our only seasons here.
My body’s a clubfooted boat,

not me. One time I went
blonde, that’s a different

prow. One time I went
with suit-jacket, that’s a different

sail. One time I go
and touch the exact difference,

pretty, sailing, she says, I love you.
I say, whose boat.