The Labyrinth

by Gospel Chinedu

Across the perimeters of the room, there’s tranquility at one parallel & 
turbulence at the other. My mood depends on the wind’s direction. &
my body is a weather vane. On most days, the wind blows me to the 
mouth of a tempest where I lie in wait of a new disaster only I can invent.
Then, I hoe my knees into the ground. I plant the pumpkins & water
the seedlings my voices soft on the surface of the sand. In the season of
sprout, I watch the spring erosion them into a river. I know the river as
much as its currents whisper my name. At the riverbank, black boys drink
of the water & turn blue like litmus paper. Between God & dust —there’s
rain, a running tendon. & night after night, I scour the shelf of my life.
Read books upon books. My favourite story is only half a page long. & the
length of my joy is the longest line on my palms. At the tip of every finger,
there’s a different song. Daily, I find myself in the forest of my life,
touching every trunk of trees. The most beautiful trees, sometimes, have
the unpleasant fruits. Bear witness to this, the world would love me if
I crave penance over compassion. & I would love the world if it lets me
die by my own hands. When the wind blows me towards tranquility, 
as it seldom does, I listen to the rain until I hear God’s voice gurgling down
the roof. In my lack of tongue, I pry into a boy’s mouth to slake my thirst.
His bird, a different breed. Trust me, I sang a sweet song once. & it was 
because, unlike every bird, I descended safely into the world without wings.
But, such a descent is only an evidence of severed remiges. My body —
nothing near this black magic. In the middle of the room, I spin like the
blades of a fan, turbulence chasing tranquility, tranquility chasing turbulence.

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