Souls Strung together like Beads on Ankles

poetry, issue-one

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.