Dear Chimamanda Adichie
We should all be feminists? No! It is rusty; and rust cannot be a bluing for the gecko’s skin. Queen of meteor poltergeists, you claim to stuff rare sutures in fissures of the sun. You are the warmth of moon at night feast, trumpeting crystals of talons.
This call is ripeness, taking flight to the cloud, yeasting to strange dregs within a ring unguided; strewn shards grey in circuit. Night like faceless thieves at see depth, I saw your subversive robe forged fluorescence
Settling with sieved fibres of ghost, holding the pulse incessant to an ageless mute. Long on the brine, and if not clam and moss circumambulating swathhole, then frayed of peace offerings for tapestry.
It cannot be, the heaven heading the earth is a sort of crevice lawn, bereaved morass and sesame. This cottoned feet conjugation with my earth yields yowling treads, alien tongue feeler on lakes. And how it beats
On rectrices of eagles to the throne of severance. Women never sat in circle of ancestors! Remember still, rains arc for grains to coo with green pigeons. The yam wholly earthed, stick binds to it for the stolon.
River blends with ocean for a tide, yet at the terror of ebb recedes she quickly, trembling in her transparencies. Children should frolic in their mothers’ bosom! Lush petals and myrrh–woman–the counterpane must not be cold!
There is callus on my palm and sole, I need the oil! Scrub-brush at dawn touches the sward for a crossway of flame. O shield me now in the valley of knowledge! I shall not be a victim when this veiled spectre haunts the lavender earth; I swear, we all should not be feminists!