A storm without mother


From the darkness of my bones,
the earth rises, flowers the blood

of the moon into rainfall.
The white teeth of sunlight eats

the dawn's milky sheen, drinks
the sour taste of sleep from

my eyes. Like children,
the skeleton of memory rummages

through the dust wind of harmattan,
shadows haunting the corners

& turnstiles of forgotten
playgrounds. From the transparent

skin of my sweat & spit, a fire
melts all the snow capped mountains

of my heart. I sit amidst the many
sages of my pen, their black ink

skinning the paper, peeling colour
& truth from its ribs. I am immortal

as an uttered word caught
by the throats of the wind,

tossed by the feet of evening
breezes, leaping from ear to ear,

lip to lip, teeth torn open
like old paperback novels.

In between whitewashed sheets
stained red with my humanity,

I dine alone on sin & the thirsty
waters of grief. I press deeper

the shape-shifting song
of my black bones into the piano

key music of silence.
It is an afternoon of miracles

& I am a god of small mercies.
I take & take & the afternoon dies

its slow death only to be reborn,
a spirit child, a storm

without father, a sea
without mother.