Somewhere between life and lore, cotton swills the hill on top of the pale cloud.
There is a sound of Barbastelle bats shrieking in the virgin forest
where ancient souls rest in ancient soil. Coffins are stones.
The air is stale and wet. Outside-
a boy fetches the rain, the whispering wind and takes a look at the sky.
The face of his grandfather’s memories shred past paradise.
The garnet-sunset crawls into his soul and out of the night, a black ass canters
into his dream. A statue of roses vague and rickety palpitates
like an old man’s groove dressed in the 80s.
Nothing is pleasant nothing here is pleasant.
The blackbird’s dirge in the woodland reaches out to the city
and a clang of light strikes past the tallest tree.
I read your tongue out
rolled up in wet cold
like lilies in hot spring.
A lilac bow strikes
still and still
like your stale utterance at midnight.
As the rain brushes my skin,
my bones crack like crack
though I wish to have you back.
Your gossamer silt sits in the gloom
and the sky falls on top of the moon.
I become rivulets with no source.
My veins rain down my sleeves
and my eyes shed loneliness down my checks.
(a crow shivers on top of his grave)
Here something rots.
Something like the cusp of your skin.
Poems © Ruru Wekpe