Poetry

John Chizoba Vincent: The Blue Medal of the Blessed Virgin Mary

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay (modified)

THE BLUE MEDAL OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY

We have to laugh in-between these lines &
pause to stretch our bodies to occupy space.
It’ll weave itself into forms of matter & grief.
I’m marked for destruction & the man of
this planet shouldn’t allow living ghost to roam
on his planet holding the missals, the rosary
& the blue medal of the blessed Virgin Mary.
God handed over my funeral clothes to me &
My sister could not find me in my mother’s
Prayer on the altar last Sunday service;
& Standing in front of the Statue of Mary
reminded me of how I cut the sky to bleed
because I wanted the rainbow to shed its colours,
you won’t see me in this poem;
You’ll only see me in hell holding fire for
Satan as a mark of death & suffering.
I was never taught how to envy my skin,
I was only taught how to hide under it; upon
the silence in my bedroom, grief is a friend.
I’m an unforgivable sin in the heart of men,
A moth like me will always dance to flame.
Adrien Vachette’s soul had no blood when
he killed a soul like mine in the hands of a
father who baptised himself in an inexorable
Fanatic brand of Catholicism, he sold us all.
At 10, my body has completed a whole elegy
to bury men of like-minds who religion bent.
I’m a body on fire, death forgets my name each time I pass the growing night
holding the blue medal of blessed Virgin Mary.
————-
Poem © John Chizoba Vincent
Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay (modified)

About the author

John Chizoba Vincent

John Chizoba Vincent has become the names of three people who deliberately see through each other. Sometimes, they are at war with each other and at times, they are the ties that never get broken. They: Them: Us: We represent Boys and their Anatomies, Men and their vulnerabilities, and Humans and their imperfections. Between them are rosy track roads that are rough and tough. They live in a lonely room in Lagos, Nigeria.

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