Mother Of Three Poem by Adeniran Joseph

MOTHER OF THREE


Show me the way to the root of hell,
And I will lead your legs to the fumes in a smoke,
For that is how we name our bodies with psalm  of revelations,
Giving ourselves broken clothes of surges dirges,
That recount how many fingers entering a mouth.

My mother said we should cover our eyes,
If we don't want to die young like lines of roads,
She said we should thread a part in her breast,
Not to suck nor lick but to pour our words in,
So we won't be part of running ashes of our father's house.

Look how my sister bend her body into a domy cloud,
Won't she be hosted by tomorrow's slippery hope?
My brother was 1 years of age when he began to duel with boys in his head,
My mother said  head is another name called boys on fire,
Where humans becomes a stuck dust without dying.

Everyday you must hold your poem and write without a pen,
To overcome the last name given to you by your father,
telling him of  how many cities he had burnt in your mother's body.

Sometimes,
I tried to kiss my shadow to fall on my arms,
To think otherwise and mend my  season of fulfillment,
But we were diverted by songs of the world,
Living in a colourful platform of dead bodies.

I have something to give my mother when I grow up,
Things of what mouth can't eat and hands can't touch,
Things of what eyes can view and what people can't behold,
Things meant for things of another something beyond humans' thinking,
Mother, take a trip to my fingers,
The  past await a  renounced future in your lips,
Be ready to sing a speechless  song,   still loading....