by Timi Sanni
The spirit needs its bouts and blockades
but, of course, the body wants
no darkness in its bale. In that stack
of sinews, an attention
of bones joy themselves
to the rhythm of living’s jazz.
Argon burns to blossom
as light in bulbs. The aches of the past
lie illegible in the mirror’s blur.
Before now, there never
was enough juice in the sun
to soak the body from marrow to bone.
We marinated sick the steak
of the flesh; held our babies
to all that yellow till they babbled
elegy as words. (What god
allowed this?) Later, we learnt
that living lords its own light.
Later, like an eternal engine,
we watched the body
put a torch to itself, then wade
through thick darkness, unquenched.
The body, inevitable as rainbow
on oil spill as it breaks from sheen to shore.
Image by JD on Unsplash