A Bow Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Under a pearl
alabaster
drifting sky,

eyes pushed
forward
to cut angles
with flamy
showered rays.

A curved head,
not a nod
to the horns
and claws
of an umber

red cloud
spilling
over crimson

red drips
and cutting
splashes.

Not a tilt
of head to toes
gripped tight
by fungus,

but a forward
curve and coil

to sip dust
of life and death,
peeking
at bright lilies

on a rose-
sprawled field
devouring
storm-hurled
swords

at man's inner
bowl in embers
and ashes

and the rivers
taking rise
from his brows.

(ii)

A rainbow's
arched nod
not to lick
a smoky sky's
powder,

but to shrink
sky into
air's hanging
grey cream

threads stitching
pink and red
gore
and wound,

when the dove
strikes from
its throat
a deep gong

to arouse
a flamy thunder
and blared roar
under
a cerulean sky.

(iii)

A bow,
as chin touches
chest

to scoop out
a piece of inner
flashed light

at anthurium's
peaked sky
and eglantine rose,

two foreheads
brushing
each other for
the canary's voice

growing
pansies under
star-lit glass
in showers

of a planted sun
not climbing
a rising mountain
by a falls' wails.