for opal palmer adisa (33)

with all the rainbow’s splendor

for opal palmer adisa

she had a knack for figuring

out the finite in the infinite

from ‘roti’

well known to nigeria’s gwari, berom & otárók
peoples, who dwell in her plateau lands,
u can rise daily to go to farm & if the gods
smile widely, showing their sparkling teeth,
while clearing the land of its native cover,
while removing rocks & stones, opals &
tourmalines can be found resting anonymously
on the surface. the trick of fate is to know what

they are, recognize their iridescent value, or they
will be mindlessly tossed for the mundane yam,
sorghum & millet pray/planted in the holes they
leave. i found u in much the same way. the certain
surfaces of yr poems drew me to u, daughter of
the uncommon yam, caught my eye; appeared
to change colors in the way of soap bubbles,
butterfly wings & mother of pearl. i picked up
one of yr poems & held it like a conch shell to my

ear. the twang of yr lilting poetic voice took hold

of me, took me by the hand & walked me “finger

laced with onlookers looking on” thru the erotic

& often ineffable landscapes of yr verse. i know

the muses who routinely take yr head. they are like

pomba gira, the salaciously scintillating spouse of eşu

& iyami aje, the divine mother of the mothers, who

cause u to write power without guilt, love without

doubt & against the arrogance or negligence of men;

cause u to poetically walk or gẹlẹdẹ dance where u please,

afraid of no one, neither law nor rule, flowing through

the cracks & crevices of convention. yes i know

yr muses & why u must motherly & loverly receive

them. & every day when i go to farm in my own fashion,

at labor’s end, if i don’t find a new opal resting on

the ground before me, i simply retreat to the secret

clutch of poems that i keep; poems alive, stepped on

by the creator, sparkling with all the rainbow’s splendor

& take one, look deeply into it or put it to my ear.

©Joseph McNair