Beach In The House Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

We've been
to the beach
having
sipped sun-
diluted breeze

all morning
and early
silver afternoon,
until
sky turned
cream and beige.

Gold air
full of sun
sat on
our chests

like a lace plate
of sunshine
egg, its yolk
sun's corona

curved in
and shaped
into a round
center bulb ready

to dive into
our hollow
deep throats

wetted
by the spinning
breakfast
in its sky nest,

a dish of sunshine
we breathed
in and swallowed
with shark

mouths, leaving
only little
on tanned
and blemished skin

to tug
in all its weight
and take
home

as the souvenir
of a sun-flowered
half-day
in its full petals.

(ii)

The gold sky
splashed
a trombone
on us
to blare for hours

until
its mellow
sheet
spread right
to its edges

and sat
on us like a giant
bird with
goldenrod
wings

it flapped
and preened,
as sun brightened

with creeping
breezes
and stroking
and
fondling zephyrs

often kissing
us in the lips

and brushing
our dusty,
sandy soles
planted

into pasty silt
cushioning
them
with soft palms.

(iii)

How the beach
pulled us
back at every

paced inch
of our trip
back home.

How the beach
sun
tracked
our breath,

as we drove miles
and miles
off until,

as we bumped
into the living room
through
a dry desert porch,

a flax-cream
ceiling
our only sky,
another beach
on its own wheels

landing
on my shirt, a blue
morpho
piloting its way

on a narrow
strip
of my sleeve‘s
runway,

a beach on wings
I carry
to the living room.