Flu Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Bloating rivers carry
flat and bumpy
waves of quahogs and suns

shredded into light
cotton specks
and tails of white flying birds

trailing cream sponges and woven
balls of snow built
and interwoven with sheets
on spiraling spindles.

To spin life stretched out
in a bow's mouth
yet to cough out a slithering arrow

in light years
unfolded from pole to pole.

Light races
on a thin fiber of lace
braided into a hand flipped back

to shoot a lightning-lipped ace
on the same track

as splitting clouds
narrowing swords
of drizzles and rain
land with a hummingbird's peck.

(ii)

My nose runs
twenty meters down
past my feet.

Thirty meters across
to the deluge sneezed out
with torn smudges

to cling to philtrum
pushing out tributaries

into a sitting estuary
laid out in the cloudy sky
of a flying handkerchief.

(iii)

Stretching out
mountainous ridges of toes

through gardens
growing gray petals of phlegm
and the silver beads
of a growling river running

beyond palisades
planted to ward off

thawed moons
of napkins and handkerchiefs,
as stars fly in

with wings of the coronavirus,
a fledgling still
in its nest in the gentle wind
stroking nose,

the only blocked chimney
spitting back to the house

blotches of thick flies
of smoke
buzzing by a lantern
wearing a king's hat of smoke.

(iv)

Here, the nimbus
blown off
by a staggered breath crosses
bridges to land

on the fire and flames
of an exploded low cough

jumping out
of a crater of smear and grime
no drizzles can dapple off.

But stacks of towels
pile up,

as a nurse from Venus
fires off a Sirius grin,

letting a bawling thunder
cackle off
the tail of a virus

flapping the helices of the long-range
albatross spread out
with the wingspan of a crucifix.