CALL:

Did you not promise me the sun?

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RESPONSE:

The sun? The sun? Did I?

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CALL:

Did you not say the stars would be my anklets,

the moon my silver comb?

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RESPONSE:

The stars? The moon? Ah! Who told you so?

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CALL:

You swore it beneath the Ìrókò tree!

You called the river to bear witness!

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RESPONSE:

The Ìrókò sways, the river runs,

who can hold their words in water?

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CALL:

But you remember when I forgot your market-day.

You remember when I misspoke your mother’s name.

You remember the debt of my tongue,

but not the abundance of your own!

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RESPONSE:

The debt is a stone—it sits, it waits.

The abundance? A bird—it flies, it fades.

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CALL:

And what of your oaths?

What of the things you swore and shattered?

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RESPONSE:

A woman swears with the heart, not with the mouth.

The mouth is a reed—it bends, it breaks.

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CALL:

Then let the gods decide!

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RESPONSE:

The gods are wise. The gods are silent.

(Pause.)

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CALL:

So I am the only one who must remember?

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RESPONSE:

Memory is a pot—who holds it, holds fire.

You, my love, must hold it.