Some gourds open their lips
To eat the wind, cool the wine
That drinks the body of earth
As a man wipes his face with paper towels.
Drunk with yesterday, anyone will dance,
Pick stubbled footprints from grass stalks
& build bird nests with fruit flies.
A carpenter's son wracked with anger
This way passes with the work
Of his father on his shoulder &
Judas' kiss on his lips.
O what sons of men rides this wild
Beast that blows with claws of ice
Eating the jugular of our song,
Drinking the tongue of our copious scream?
We have returned to dust, home
Among bones stained with magma.
We have slit our bodies to shrouds
Our hands bare with bloodstains & stink
Of fresh fear still tactile, still a sheen.
Where are the heroes of ages spun
Out of the half sleep of mothers suckled
By bearded snores, a cracked bed
Shaping shadows of soft moans
On the dusty window sill
Where every moon returns again & again
To feast us with thirst for tomorrow.
©Osahon. 2020.
