Poetry

before love is cartooned worthy of honour,
before lawyers bind grief into forms
where careful records make up for absence

a man drenched himself in gasoline /
to protest the Biafran war. He’d stood across the road /
from lunatics cheering for him to die.

I crisscross a cardigan over my chest / try to name the sound of a small boy / who can’t yet tie two words together

do not succumb / to the allure / of smooth, sexy / skin that fools / the eye /
Your skeleton / is your framework, / lay in the bones, / the muscles, / the soft tissues

“salvation is an encrypted message in the belly of a shark.
our divine loins surrounding a fallen body like sworn angels.
… our innards spilled out like petroleum jelly:
a matchstick thrown in here is self-arson.”

“the blossom fades / And they are forgotten with the seasons.”

… we sank heavy at your side,
waterlogged with the idea of death,
taking turns to flinch…

every origin story comes with a warning
once upon a time
there were sons writing the language of worship