Three Poems by Osahon Oka
Open wounds
You come, your softness, a well pounded yam,
catching sunlight from the universe between
each moment of lift & thud–pestle in the mouth
of mortar, your feet on this carefree earth.
Laba-laba fluttering from afar, you parade with
the evening breeze, quickly tasting the last blossom
of sunset, the dew enriched night time friendly, calling,
seducing you into the gentle light that peeps through
the window gauze–a curtain hiding wounds–your
father pushing your mother deeper into her place–a
worn, scratched, stained, dark space echoing still with
stifled screams, shushed tears & careful speech.
You wander the edge of light, your fingers uncurling
wings under the porch, your eyes travelling from the
dance of your hands in the shadows to the distant
places you have dreamed of, believed in.
You gather those gossamer flights & they sail you into
the quiet tragedy of a still bleeding sore–your father
swallowing his pounded yam, your mother seated with her
wild eyes, demure, supple–a well used mattress, & gentle–a
freshly caught rose in love’s bitter tasting kiss.
Your music stops, your wings gather the dust from your
mother’s gaze, falls as you try to flee, at least within your
dreams; you try to become a mote, at least a pretend speck
of dust, until you hear him say your name & you combust
into an older inferno in order to help her unsay silence.
All that is left of the cackle & sparks is the smouldering hurt
& anger your mother pushes into your mouth, the war
ravaged room, the massacre of silence in your father’s quiet
eyes & the partisan neighbours carrying their voices through
the window, curtains parted, wounds torn wide open.
There is poetry after laundry
after this–the sky, blue, lacking clouds, the rain swept yard;
after cleaning the sink, taking the trash to the back,
avoiding the chain link fence folded like a cobra near
the door; after the posse of laughter & the solitude
of agony; after searching for the phone charger, the
television too loud for thought, standing at the entrance,
unsure why you are there, watching how the sun slays
your body with light sharper than the butcher knife
at the corner of the kitchen counter, still bloody
with murder; after the exegesis of devotion & you
are asked, why are you so humble & you reply;
humble? I’m tired, very tired, just waiting to expire;
after the exercises & your tendons hurt & midlife
crisis is still as real as it was last night when you saw
your midriff poking buttons, you & your partner
running at each other never arriving quick enough
to say I love you; after finding demise is a man with
no grudge, a hunger for putrefaction; after the clothes
pile up & you can no longer pick socks smelling of
damp feet from the edge of the rug; after the anxiety,
after the ordinary tragedy of watching the seven o’clock
news; after understanding all the ways to stay unseen,
the fond songs of morning; after writing the first line
before the long white silent space, the metaphors: a womb
bearing the sea, a music of sand & scraped soles, the
fleeting savour of separation–bodies separating from
cloth & leave takings, the sudden flowering of the divine
–a pale green shoot breaking earth, the gruesome trauma
of shush; after tearing up all the drafts & swearing that
you know nothing else to do but die; after learning that
with things all gods are possible–there is poetry.
These small pleasures are all I ask.
These small pleasures–cheap beer, balmy nights
filled with bounteous stars; trees still green,
weaving leaves, the night yielding & fleeting on skin;
conversations–laughter & music–also tender, always sad;
weed rolled taut, smoked long; rivers clambering
over wild flowers & pebbles green with algae to greet the shore;
sea foam nodding cocked bottles & fishing trawlers
back home; a fine-looking negro woman walking bold, light
in her eyes–fireflies by the window of her soul; swallows
on the garret tripping on duets; sand, sudden & white
under soles; stories of vague places & people who rise,
who fall; adoring a black body back into dawn with soft sighs
& hands tangled within braids & beard; hot baths
scalding skin, a bike ride on an open street, hands
spread–the freedom of the cross; pineapple, cold, ripe,
rhyming with tongue & spit, gullet & teeth; poetry
written in murky moments, without fear, too much pain;
prayer said & meant in the silence of church, painted glass
burning light, dust motes rising like sacrifice, pigeons
cooing in the rafters, me & God forlorn; clouds carrying
the faces of all the deities, rainfall on a weekend; sleep
that never wakes, without dreams, without hope; countryside
transiting fast, hiding hell, illusory heaven–are all I ask.
Osahon Oka is a Nigerian writer. He lives and works in Benin City, Edo state. His writings are on several literary spaces both online and offline. His debut, a collection of short stories, is forthcoming on Praxis Books.