I know God. & I am addicted to worshipping him like angels do. he knows me through elongated rosaries performing miracles in my hand.
I know God when I see him; his mien reflects in your scarless face like peering through a water & locating your reflection.
In autumn, I know trees that get electrocuted in fear; I know trees that get bathed with rose water in spring too.
& all I see here are yellow leaves gamboling euphorically in sweet summer like vultures prey on other vulnerable birds on summit.
every day, I long for you in these stars hanging over my mother’s brown roof. I see you, & I yearn to pluck you like a rose flower.
I’ve searched for you in this moon; I have given your pictures to birds that bid farewell to noon in transmogrification of dark night.
I’ve sketched you on this rivulet, & I’ve crafted you into an origami beauty. & I want your love to cover me like a shawl in this unforgiving winter.
THESE MEMORIES ARE OF FLOWERS
miscellaneous flowers flapping fervently in a love garden like dust invading the nose of a street boy who was trying to capture his grief in the neck & break it into pieces of water.
yesterday, we talked about all that blossoms in a garden – like chandelier. like grandiflora flower. like memory that ignites in our hearts in espy of mnemonics. love too glitters like sunlight.
these memories are of flowers.
tonight, we sit underneath the tree reading pages of our smiles like a collection of beautiful poems. memories are butterflies, they fly & later hang in our hearts & make us know we’re not alone & we won’t ever be left alone.
we stretch our hands under the brown roofs to fetch rainwater & swallow it in our bellies; we transmogrify our mouths into flower gardens & plant almighty chrysanthemums. these memories are all of flowers preserved in a mahogany box.
I’ve known different flowers grow in different vases scavenging rainwater for perpetual existence; I have known flowers for wedding anniversaries. flowers for birthdays. flowers for lovers’ reunion. I know flowers for funerals too – like lilies.
I’ve known macabre memories that blurred the retinas ducking in my eyes; I’ve known memories that exhumed salt water from my eyes too. but I swear, these memories are of beautiful flowers hanging on the walls of our hearts like photographs, not whatchamacallits.
of paper boats that sailed us in picnic; of sandcastle that concealed homeless fireflies in winter; of limousine made with empty tins of milk – & purpleheart. I know of beautiful memories hanging in my throat like words left unsaid in the mouth of a senescent phoenix.
Poems © Olalekan Hussein
Image by Rattakarn_ from Pixabay