A Dish Of Distanced Sun Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Folks carrying heavy
heads from deep holes

pop out, sprinkling
into the main hall behind

a snaky line dotted
with cloud-powdered
faces and watersheds of mouths

leaking with jumping
streams wetting them. Sipping them,
as ropy tongues
lick lips without tying them up
to wait for a dish.

But the elastic tongues
stretch further ropes
to tie lips
that only untie themselves
for a well-spiced dish.

Scratching and lighting
up tongues and palates for
nectar to dissolve
in the flaming pollen of mouth.

Gingiva smart and crack
and mandibles itch for
a melting burger
to grind and compact

into a deep stomach's cabin
playing bass drums
and blowing trumpets
amid bumping gongs.

(ii)

Fire on the palate.
Fire on tongues.
Rivers pouring out of mouths,

for its time under red lights,
green lights bleeding
with a slimming amber

to nibble off time
and fill up mouths growing

into deep gorges
that must be filled up

with the best of beef and fish
the restaurant has
on a distanced menu

missing its own track to beacons
by a table, a customer
bawling out for distanced sun,

as sharp rays cut through
touching glass and mirrors

to land on swelling deserts of tables,
as a sun wallows too closely
for customers distancing themselves
from each other.

The only meal
lacking on the menu
is a dish of dim,
shadowy distanced sun.