still water with ifeoluwa
the way you cup
my face in your
hands as if offering
a sacrifice or waiting
for something to perch
and devour me; i
lie bare like Isaac
eyes shut, trapped on
a stony deathbed
waiting for a stab
yet it never comes
you, unfazed, have made
me think of the
water
& how it is always water
flowing, ebbing, drowning
with every kiss a
baptism; a new life inside
a religion of us
my body learns to
beg differently
asking only that you
pray on me
=====
Self-Portrait of A Dream Where My Mother Stands
with closed eyes
and amygdala guile
maman cups my face
in her hands as the room
tilts sideways
light refracting past our feet
our family portrait grazes
noiselessly
on the floating table i deftly
consume forkfuls of
this moment, her
eyes rescind farther
my eyes acquiesce this
face
slightly mine /
mostly dead
gravity
prevents
your
life
from
being
summarized
by one fatigued
organ
the only
thing
a miracle
hates
is another
miracle
my compromised prefrontal cortex
reminds me
of my mutated greed
how much more of
you can I take with
me
i
am
the most
powerful
biological
weapon
when measured
in decibels
how much of me
can you take with you
this paged dream
never sticks to the skin
or script
see how corridors squeeze
back into walls
and soles and feet
become one
maman says the same
thing as when i got
my first paper cut
while unscrewing the cookie
jar
what
is not
yours
is not
yours
=====
pelican aubade
=====
aubade for a five letter word city
where the rich trample &
the poor stay trod
underfoot disguised as mercy;
where to look up means
defiance which means a
prayer or a calamity
of a tightened fisticuff
where my father fleed to
& is still fleeing;
where parties spills into
sidewalks like blood from
an assaulted artery;where
boys become men before
they become boys playing
keep away with women;
where surnames spell distinction
or death; where an
ocean seethes with patience
waiting to noah us
all;
accra; miami; lagos; tokyo;
seoul; dakar;
welcome; which one is
yours?
=====
Placebo
i remain plagued by
a catalogue of useless
memories; all leaking into
another. & there still remains
a putrid trace – a symphony
of lost things of things
barely lived & mostly loved
that one Easter where my
mother sways gaily in her apron
the kitchen drowning in curry as
she serves a meal that even now
i know she cannot prepare
same way my lover or a previous
one force feeds me a foreign
fruit only seen off the set of
a 90s tv show
i think what else is real
is everything layered in
falsehood sky: a large blanket
of white blue-death slowly
drifting away to revealing an
eye from above coming
down to extinct us all
as it all melts down I
awake unmoored from
reality
outside children scurry
in different directions as
the snow skirts above their
heads, from where I sit they look
like an ant colony petrified of a boot
stamp
i think too that this feels familiar
=====
Poetry (c) Anthony Ikeh
Image: Nikola Dmitrović Unsplash