My Cell Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Birds coo and hoot.
And warble from branches
of overgrown eyes
having nibbled off and swallowed
hugs and thick frowns

from the rolling tree
of folks carrying dry leaves
and withered flowers

hanging on faces and shoulders
in a night-lit shrouded street
full of squeaking dudes.

A darkening night of faces
sails in a boat too dim
to slash off silver arms of light

bouncing in with saw-edged
heat, every pedestrian
a muscled sawyer breaking through
shaved timber wailing out

for its roots in lumps
and mounds of earth, as life flips off
green and brown
blankets of its aging cover.

(ii)

Sun rays widen breath,
standing lamps bowing low

to drums and burgles
of tasteless jerky chats
and storm-driven gossip.

sticking out sparks of teeth,
heavily loaded mouths
hanging on mists and screens

of the world spilling out
sheathes of whispers
to filter a ringing wriggling din.

In the desert of noisy
sand dunes carrying road runners
on tree-less streets,

taller trees of voices grow and flower
with outbursts of laughter
and cliff-driven galloping wails.

(iii)

All is threaded through lanes
and jumping flyovers
hanging on the stiff backs

of rattlers and warblers,
these strings of cars
and trucks grinding through

thick clouds and crowds
of lengthened faces.

In a street of mirrors,
no one holding
out their crystal mirror,
I flip out mine to mold me
on a rusty screen.

(iii)

This is my face. This is my screen.
I'm in a cell. I'm in a nest.

No tree branch to lift me out
of the depths of my loneliness

in an overcrowded square
where streets kiss each other,
showing little shredded love.