Anthurium Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(spun from a meeting table with a vase of anthurium clusters)

(i)

A laceleaf,
the red plate feeding
a wrangle,

its sparks
floating like stars
in syzygy.

That flower,
the red plate
that feeds
no thundering belly,

but fans
a glowing fire,
its hearth
deep and sinking,

but shooting out
sparks
from a tall candle
to poke
a sky in shards
after
a rolled-out thunder.

That flower,
says a speaker,
steers a repartee
to a cliff.

That flower, says
another speaker,
spins on the wheels
of flames.

How red-rolling
eyes
pop out
from lion to lamb,

get tapered
like jumping flames.

(ii)

Driven by punching
arrowed lips
rolling like the wings
of red butterflies.

See how they spin
and bubble
faster than
a hot cauldron's lid

whiffing off
cigarette smoke,
when it's time
to eat a finger-biting dish.

An anthurium lights
a candle
on its red plate
holding a crimson
ellipse
in a sky's cream patch.

(iii)

The desk-hitting
man wearing thick
lion gloves
with sharp paws
grows like a tree,

his branches
arching down
with the fire of ripe fruits
no one sees
in the overcrowded
meeting,

birds whispering
louder than
a wind's cruising voice

to bask in the bonfire
of the wrangle
in a candle's coughing mouth.