Kweku Abimbola: California Poets Part 10, Three Poems

Kweku Abimbola

April 2nd, 2026

California Poets: Part X

Kweku Abimbola

Three Poems

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Lake Piru, California

We are many miles from the lake

where you first taught me how to hold

skipping stones

with my index, middle,

and thumb—

just like a pen,

ready to scribble O’s

on the water’s parchment.

Back then we stood freestyling

between science and art:

back foot on shore, forefoot heeled

shin deep in water still enough

to startle.

We can’t hear it the same

here, compared to the lake—

Now the sound of waves swallow

the thwack of water against—

There is more seasoning to our silence here

which feels less like silence

because our bodies

despite our bodies

make room.

Room enough for you to come

behind me and shadow my frame

saying without speaking.

As you have said without speaking

before—

lettering my body like yours

into a kind of upper-case K

against the horizon.

Three skips, in my first try,

now your turn. And back again,

until six skips is

the number to beat—

we change the rules each time

we play. And we play

‘til our arms say so.

We play ‘til my final skip: play ‘til

a jet engine screeches overhead,

I look up and see two planes

about to collide close to the horizon

until one flaps its wings.

And this is no longer a metaphor

for us, because now,

when I see you coming,

head on,

I no longer

flinch.

Trade

after Nikki & Lucille

Half of heaven’s already here. So

the other day I got to thinking:

what if for stars, heaven’s to descend

to human form?

To know light through lips and gravity through dance—

to measure years not as light, but sound?

& what if stars got preachers too?

Prepping their 700-degree souls for the transition,

the explosion, the cooling, the ladder down, the shift in atmospheric pressure,

the skin, the nails, the hair—yes! The hair.

And what if, it’s during this transition,

from starshine to clay that we forget—

probably on account of the G-Forces,

& centripetal pull, & E=mc2, & whatever the hell else

got burned up in Alexandria; what if we forget

that all this time we’ve just been trading after-

lives? Neat as any water cycle. So eventually,

when you run out of ‘cestors to name

all you’ll need to do is find the nearest mirror,

or step outside on a clear August evening,

and use your fingers to tic-tac-toe

constellations, as if they’re sand,

on an ọpọ́n Ifá—

until they become sand on your

ọpọ́n Ifá.

So much sand, you can’t even use

your fingers

to count.

Stretch

after the Black Men’s Healing Circle

With my knuckles, I juice

the remainder of yesterday

out of my hamstrings n’ thighs

wincing between exorcism, ease,

ouch.

The deeper the stretch

the older the pain. &

I like this pain, I tell

myself.

During a forward bend,

I bring my ear close to my hip

so close, I hear my hip

cussing me out:

Keep this up & soon you’ll have

a “good hip.” Choose wisely.

My hip continues reading & reminding me.

Reminding me of all the times I’ve forgotten

to stretch,

until my instructor tells me to send love

to my ankles & pinky toes. Now it’s my turn

to cuss someone out. & I allow

my intrusive thoughts to intrude before

agreeing send down as much love

as any leg or appendage can hold.

Next, I am asked to behold my shins

as if they are mirrors, & kiss, yes kiss

my knees! Can you believe it?

I’ve never done this before, in this way,

in a room full of semi-strangers.

I’ve never done this before, in this way,

in a room full of lovers. You’d think

this was my first time molding my body

without music—& you might be right.

I am told to inhale & hold & be—

& finally, this time, I don’t mistake this

for an eight-count.

I don’t have to hide behind any count,

“The count is yours. Rise, “he says. “When you are

ready.

& I rise, almost forgetting

my eyes are still closed.

& I rise as if my body’s today

& his voice, everything I’ve had to name

“tomorrow,” just so I might have an excuse,

maybe, to keep opening all that’s left

of eyes in exchange for what’s left

of the day.

Author Bio:

Born in the Gambia, Kweku Abimbola earned his MFA in poetry from the University of Michigan’s Helen Zell Writers’ Program. He is of Gambian, Ghanaian, Nigerian, and Sierra Leonean descent.

Abimbola’s first full-length poetry collection, Saltwater Demands a Psalm, was published by Graywolf Press in 2023. The début collection was selected by Tyehimba Jess to receive the Academy of American Poets’ First Book Award. In 2024, Saltwater also received a gold medal Florida Book Award, and the inaugural Nossrat Yassini Poetry Prize. His work interrogates the intersections of West African spirituality, ethnomusicology, cultural expression, and poetics to appreciate the legacies of Black literature on a global scale.

He has worked as a teaching artist for the Detroit-based literary nonprofit Inside Out Literary Arts and lectured in English and Creative Writing at the University of Michigan. Abimbola is an Assistant Professor of English and Creative Writing at Loyola Marymount University. He is also the Poet Laureate of El Segundo, CA and a 2025 Academy of American Poets National Poet Laureate Fellow.