a shadow ready to perform arson
I push myself a bit further out of a self-wreck —
the mistakes done in darkness, repeated in light.
My eyes, each, are a house of random ruins. I keep falling
back; submerged into the deep inside of me, if I pick a vein,
a tissue for a lifeboat, I still cannot float on broken memories.
Blood is as boundless as sea. I wish blood is thicker as molasses,
so I can retract reveries with slow speed; so I can pay attention to budding
burdens. One minute, I am undressed; bare before blue pyre, &mirror
mockery, you should see how depression looks perfectly serene before a fire. One minute, I am extending a dream; a shadow ready to perform arson, searching familiar darkness.
One minute, god says, live. I reply, shut up you devil. One minute,
I meet myself breathtakingly, cascading: a spring in my palms. I stop this dream to retry.
I tell god, I’m sorry.
My body as a blank flag
I swallow residual poetry // it is how I trade for a flag void of colours//
How I wake hibernated peace // how I convince gravity & pass //
& create my own very sky // & feel there are imperfections I can
Still make to fly perfectly// I // a blank flag in the hands of races // caving
Into color palettes denotatively // as a proof to the world //that healing is mutual //
// that by blank, we can make enough rooms for beautiful
But // I’ll admit nothing has changed //because each morning I am confused as to
What to accommodate:
The morning grief’s or prayers’ arsenal exchange over my mind// I possess burnt lips over several beckons of the sun // on pools of incessant tears // drowning me // that keep
Questioning my conscience // there is
Itchy news coursing my coarse mind // the 13-year-old essayist girl // who died
By stray bullet opens a brook of silence inside of me// I carry a pressing bag of guilt of the woman // who held out the doctor’s prescription for her dying child // whom I could not help because I know I cannot save everybody // I leave grief and other reflection as a background // when I pretend to take a lone selfie// I tried // to own myself once // but isolation is as boring as hell // I keep swallowing // I keep my body open
Like a nameless country //I keep etching rooms for severed souls searching for solace // I keep keeping on // not because I don’t want to give up // it is because stopping does not know how to catch up on me
Goodness Olanrewaju Ayoola is an award winning Nigerian poet and teacher of English who reaches out to poetry as escapism from the contentions within and around him. His poetry has appeared in Pangolin Review, Deepwater Literary Journal, Brittle Paper, Mojave Heart, Ethel Zine and elsewhere. He is a Best of the Net Award Nominee and author of Meditations (WRR, 2016).