THAT YAM THAT I AM

 

The deep yam of death
Grows under the soil
While its stem
Climbs and spreads
And basks in the sun and in the rain
In the moon it spreads silver on the laves
As if they were a rare betel of unknown making
And as it grows deep
The yam stores in itself
Resources for another life
{ Ajoke- another life]
As the stem withers
Apart of the yam is taken up
For a steamy meal
And from the rest
The yam finds its resources for another life
When you are buried, my friend
Or I am
What shall be left
But a waft of love
For sustaining that after life?
It bothers us but little
The insects beseech us
The worms find our innards
And then something may remain
That the stem had caught hold of
And stored away under the soil
And still something may grow out
A yam, never a likeness
Yet something even more commonplace
A yam that spreads
And covers the burial
A memory, a kiss
A touch of God among the commons
A word that failed to fit.