No Cut Through Hammock Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Storm-ripped
hammock flung
into air
to swing freely

in a thick
wind of yelping
growling dogs
climbing to a roar.

Below the ropy
bridge, hurled
babbling waters

rise to a rattle
and gabbling
choked groan,

no lions
in the river,
but just winds'
hands pushing

waters to jam
against sand and clay-
clothed stones
croaking against
each other,

as wind whistles
through hanging
water licking
branches buzzing
with more puffs.

How a bridge
grows into
a swinging snare.

How weevil-gouged
wood splitting
in gobs of rot into
howling waters,

leave only thin
lattices of woven
vines held
by sisal ropes,
hands of a hammock

now hanging
shreds and threads
to hold nothing,
letting any weight
drop through.

(ii)

Fly over the river
on horseback? No,
no horse can
stand a feat to leave
it in broken limbs!

Grab branches
and swing through
to the other
eroding, breaking bank?

No, brittle twigs
will drop you off
to gaping crocodiles!

No crossing of a river
to your death;
no drowning in swelling
bouncing waters.

Only a another
track road running
side by side down
the river
bank finds hands

and feet of a softer
path to deliver
you safely onto
the other pulling bank.

Plough your way
through the bushes
to find, a narrower
stream of water

thinning out into
pebbles and cobble
stones, stretching out
a spine for all

to cross
with light hoofs
or trudge
in heavy
warbling wet boots.

And as I walk down
the river bank,
the fat body of water
changes course

into a slope
babbling across
a distant valley,

a track clothed
in dry gravel
slithering through.