When the grizzled ones in heaven pull a sigh does God go home? When children crackle in his furnace does he scrunch his nose just so? crucifix doesn’t always mean christ on the cross bleeding doesn’t always mean hurting red has too many meaning still it’s called death when you get used to pain Once I visit a hospital and the girl in front looks like three people her face is not hers pain has folded it into stories her voice is a broom-stick thicker than silence and I do not bother to find colours in her eyes I have to spare her that guilt that pity stare I have been known to lift too much weight on my shoulders like my body is the blueprint for God’s creation but tonight I’ll drop the mountains on my left and the streets that carry too many churches on my right & I’ll mould my own heaven where God does not sit on the throne where angels don’t have wings where clouds don’t exist where roar meets silence where there’s a line where ribs don’t make women where men own a past like they own a riffle where hurt is a language where there’s one color the one you choose to see Again a girl wakes up with storms in her veins bullets on her tongue and some fresh cuts across her cleavage Cuts or bites she can’t really tell because she leaves her dreams on the last pole she takes in the last glass she sips from A revolver pistol wedges against her temple she has no choice What’s the shape of a bullet when in a wound Or the range of a C-4 when in a mug to hell with forensic or autopsy people die before dropping air Give the pope a pen let him draw a line across the globe where God should own a meaning Or the streets where Christians should shoe only
About the Author
Enotor Prosper is a drummer. Born in Nigeria. His work has appeared in Pencillite and Okadabooks. His poem “Smokes of Prayer” came second in Elsa poetry competion (Uniben) 2018.