Saltwater Heritage

My grandmother scrubbed her elbows with lemon
& salt,
until they paled like the underside of snails.

She said this is how we inherit:
through friction—
ritual abrasion passed from her to me
like a stubborn song.

I lather in the morning
with eucalyptus & the names of my dead.
Scrub until memory stings.
Speak until their vowels unearth.

Each body is a temple, yes,
but also a tomb—
and every bath a resurrection.

Steam rises like incantation.
I whisper:
lorlornye, I carry you.

& the mirror answers
with his cheekbones.



Palm Oil Benediction

My uncle once dipped yam
into red palm oil, said:
before you eat, you remember.

Before you ask God for anything,
oil your hands.

We gather in the courtyard.
He breaks palm kernel.
Spits akpeteshie on the earth,
calls names only the dust still answers.

The palm tree sways
like it too remembers
a war.

Under its shade,
my brother tattoos the story
of our village in his silence.

This is how we pray:
with mouthfuls of banku,
with sweat,
with silence that curves like question marks
around a pot of pepper soup.



Salt and Intention
Every morning, before the sun
remembers its own name,
I place three grains of salt
on my tongue—
one for the boy I was yesterday,
one for the man I am becoming,
one for the man who exists
only in the space between breaths.

My mother taught me this
in the kitchen where turmeric
stained everything yellow,
where prayers were whispered
into boiling rice,
where the ritual of feeding
was the ritual of loving
was the ritual of staying alive.

She would say, Efo, taste
the earth first thing,
let it remind your body
that you belong somewhere,
that your ancestors walked
on ground that holds
the memory of their feet.

Now, in this apartment
where the walls are white
and the silence is expensive,
I continue the ceremony
of salt on tongue,
of gratitude spoken
to no one in particular,
of becoming my own
mother's prayer.

Some mornings I forget
and the day tastes different—
flavorless, untethered,
like I am floating
in someone else's life.
But then I remember
the weight of intention,
the way ritual makes
a body into a temple,
a mouth into an altar,
a morning into a promise
that today, I will choose
to remain.

 i lorlornye: Ewe word meaning “my love”; Akpeteshie : Ghanaian name for “gin"; Efo: Ewe word meaning “brother/big brother”; Banku: a popular Ghanaian dish

About the author:

McLord Selasi is a Ghanaian writer, poet, public health researcher, and performing artist. His work explores identity, memory, and our deep connections to the world around us. His recent works have been accepted for publication in Our Poets for Science, Subliminal Surgery, Eunoia Review, Poetry Journal, The Nature of Our Times, Graveside Press, and elsewhere. Connect with him on X (@MclordSela64222).

Feature image by Prayag Aghara on Unsplash