I mimic my father’s sea beautifully, the quietness
turns out so well. I learn through him
how to print
pink atmospheres & administer first aid treatment
to shooting stars
just the way the sky desires its first
kiss.
Here, a crypto god instructs me to milk the whale & trust
that my throat won’t overflow. But the fault in my god
translates to why this slumbering cloud
gathering
over my head, this meniscus of
steaming blood compelling me
to bold-text hosanna in the highest font.
Empty-handed, I walk
into the chapel
not to pray but to return to god
this stupid heart of mine.
To praise him for this damp dust
cutting my lungs from above.
Forgive me, I only mean to whittle my frustrations into
things that ignore me for fun,
but to live a lie
shouldn’t be a way to die.
I’m believing you, this throat that thins into
a wounded pipe, you too,
cough cold birds into a dancehall symphony, into warm disco,
into safe drumming amapiano. You, too,
confess flowers, & the taro root,
& I too, commit when you turn out as my crime. Call me
ticking dynamite:
a minute hand is enough to hold me to ransom.
Call my heart a highland:
every valley swells in me. I string myself
into a verse of mountain taking a pose with
rainbows—
a vengeance of light; throwing shades upon this throat
of mine chorusing into a wounded pipe with no shame.
I respond, hosting a cluster of dragonflies. How come
this poem still bloodless my tongue just to blue my bedroom
with a kiss that graces
my entire lips with tasty bullets
as bubble gums? I deserve
to be hurried into the stillness of oblivion with a kiss & that’s
exactly what a poem does—
to permit me to be
young, pretty & naughty because
it’s no sin to be earthly too.
© 2024 Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan
