THE SONG OF LEAKS AND CALABASHES
I leak away in words
I cannot hold inside God.
I leak away in the promises
I am not enough to keep.
The hole under this calabash emptying it
Was made by a needle meant to repair a crack,
And most people I love to boat away
In me keep drilling holes for decor.
My space is where other voices parked silence,
And I cannot knit the peace to birth words
Hard enough to erect volcanic mountains.
I can scold the universe to keep clean
But get too heavy to clean my mind,
Swimming through the mud of the world.
I leak away, my mind still unfenced
Like a bomb blast armored by air.
STILL LIFE WITH SILENCE
The silence in the attic
Is a contribution from all things
Capable of silence, like God.
Perhaps colorless words get leached
Into a vacuum in walls. Laughter too.
Glee is rumored to come in any color
Given lack of color is also color.
I have lived worlds where the walls:
-May accept any color I give them
-Will not hang my scream up
Like this portrait of a mouth
Already bunged up with grey dust
To tell whether the body wears
Past bloodless pains as a decoration
Of ostrich feathers upon its head,
Or that the mouth hides wailing
To invite in laughter.
Or that the Earth moves on, painless
As a fossil of a dinosaur’s burnt bone.
MEMORANDUM OF MIS/UNDERSTANDING
Is that my faith somersaulting
I have been full of all parts mine
My flaws are as submissive
Their tails are wrapping
With only Your apple stolen from You,
I am bleeding in words.
These rocks have pink stripes.
|An egg falls and
Generations of feathers
Are yellow on the floor.
|Is the earth globing lava or water?
What if a river is pushed against its will?
What’s your take on breaking
A march of ants with a giant granite barricade?
My silence is decomposing the leaves.
…to be given something I cannot use,
|Will I postpone my breath?
Some baboons eat half a fruit,
Is there a cost for everything I carry?
The flowers, wet at the core are still waving.
The water lilies, wet at the core, are still showing.
This path must start where the first one ends.
Has my body been traveled by feet not mine?
Sometimes, I wake up to footfalls of emptiness.
Did you agree the bodies You make
|Volcanoes are erupting with waiting.
Walls are decaying with waiting.
Flowers are returning.
My horn is still louder than I blow.
My grandmother says, ‘hide a peanut
Paste in your hand behind your back
And it will leak away’
Poems (c) Marial Awendit
Image: (c) Sola Osofisan