I hear your call,
and as eager palates to the opium’s summon, I answer,
with the sly kisses we traffic at nightfall,
the contraband touches across wet borders.
Lord, I confess to tasting illicit lips.
I am the spirit from a certain river
where names are mirages on the highway of ears,
yet I have allowed you my primal name.
And when you call it, I am almost alive.
I am almost alive to feast on the kitsch of wine,
sharing the bread of my waist at your
incessant last supper,
my breath in your lungs like a living death,
your voice the mortician in the spirit churchyard.
A ghost I am, a thieving ghost,
for I have stolen your kisses from another’s vault,
your grains of loins and your gift of laughter.
Truly, you are my bandit, and I, your captive muse.
Yesterday, I took an oath the ghost would be born again
and cease her pilgrimage to the altar of flesh,
but this ghost says it will be glad of another death,
the death you give.
Portrait of a Lady as a Rundown Toyota
Jesus, take the wheel of my life,
Take the wheel of this rundown Toyota.
I already had a few drinks.
My hands, brain and heart are shouting hosanna.
Take the wheel, sweet Jesus.
Baby is screaming in the backseat;
hold on, I need to light my cigarette first,
then I’ll pet you Baby, though you cry
to your father.
Why not cry to Jesus?
because your pappy is a Toyota too,
but he doesn’t run anymore.
It’s just us now Baby, and Jesus.
Keep the Toyota running,
Lord. It’s all I ask.
I can do the rest myself, I reckon,
fuck with diligence, booze and pet the baby,
but this rundown bitch of a car needs you.
For we are going on a rough ride,
and you will be our lead rider,
so our bodies are not presented a dead sacrifice,
a sacrifice to Vice City, and its Mayor the Devil.
Poems © Chidima Okafor
Image by Wolfgang Eckert from Pixabay (modified)