Incubus Poem by Simpa Omoluabi

I am wistful;

your relic
in perfume, a souvenir, wisps
from under my breath.

The place you deserted
by the wall side of the mattress,
makes the nightmarish.

Bad dreams make a man
watchful against the bewitches
of sleep;

and now I alone in my squirms
twist the bedspreads to deserts.

There are spaces within me
I am beginning to know,
that I never knew were there,
mines long there waiting to be sensed,
and am amazed how I could contain them.


Copyright © 2010 Incubus by Simpa Omoluabi