Sealed Lips Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

When the volcanic
sky tumbles with sun
and stars, after lightning

has slashed a chest
into wallowing flames,

and a bonfire
grows into a storm fire,
harmattan hands
fan a butterfly-winged glow.

A large-winged
garden swells out
under a dusk's fire.

A candle is lit
by a matchstick
spilling over
with sputtering grumbles

a hot ashtray
emptied
into a sink that erases
the smallest spark.

A saw-edged flame
wears a spider's tail
and cuts off glow.

It sinks to the smoky
dark edges
of a brittle wick.

(ii)

Lava bursts through
a rattling lid
over an overheated hearth

and overflows
from a crater
of sharp arrows

shot out by the trigger
of a volcano, doves shuffling
for more room

in an empty space
too large for sparrows,

but too narrow for
buzzing bees

darting hands and legs
at no stargazer,
nectar pushed back
into dry throats.

(iii)

The bees tap
and brush
the drums of a tightly
sealed inner bowl,

the crocus popping out
with an indigo sky

carrying one-eyed stars
shutting the other eye,

as sunny flames
blindfold both eyes,
dropping them
into a ditch of sludge,

as a petroleum flame
devours flesh and bone

and a mine explodes
into cascades
of fire and cloudy fumes.