Galatians 6:11

 

see what inkjet I make of my deft paws,

concealing a switchblade—cupid hung,

to serve as restraint when I word overboard with love.

my long breath, drawing the heat for print.

 

the jammed teeth of wastepaper.

 

I fill the cartridge that is my guts,

sum all saliva to one thick blot spilt with good stink,

doubling as a period.

 

thirst brings the fashion to my lip,

thrills me through the rainy font

& lost sizes of glyph molten, as I vent things I learnt by heart, rote

& impulse because everything needs a crimson reminder.

 

like me, alarming myself in red when I spell incorrect,

or punctuate my wrong thoughts.

 

I’m an actual clown when you let me,

humoured beyond what I can contain.

 

answerable to all I crack up,

without fisting the pothole new beside sandpapered hands

polishing the manuscript of mud,

as if a cement for test-run.

 

the margin weighs more, now.

I untuck my hand,

brand my spine—a brochure of lean possibility

groomed to measure up to your frail love.

 

the ovation boots the arteries of this poem

& I consider opting out of this blood task,

if all it takes to write you is mold my lever arms

& feed off the mechanical benefits for the time pressure stays.

 

© 2021 Nnadi Samuel