When Singing Flowers Dig Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

In the heat
and charcoal waves
of burning,
biting clouds
tossing him

into a bubbling
pronged volcano
prodding dad
with mangling pain,

let dad hang on
to a garland
of flowers hung over

his prickled
and prodded neck
to sing a song
injecting zephyrs
to erase

all scrubbed
and scratching
needles
and rusty pins.

(ii)

When times bite
and maul with
a beast's molars
and canines,

let breezes blow
with the soothing
mouths of glaciers
to brush off

scars and blisters
of creeping
galloping pain,

when palms
on body tuck in
glue to rub
and shoot in cold

balm and pomade
to lift off
that fire of nibbling
and biting ants.

(iii)

Let song and birds
from a glued
transistor flow in
with chirps
and a slim soprano.

Closely trailing
a pitched alto
and undulating
harmonicas

to toss dad into
into a warm river
sipping off all pain,

as the birds flap
glossy cotton wings
to brush
and fill up
dents on nerves.

And spiral around
his deep pains.

(iv)

Dad's been ill,
squeezed
between jagged
rocks breaking
his bones.

Hammering flesh
pushing nails
and thorns
and tacks to nibble
off his nerves

already in glowing
melting feathers.

Tonight dad sleeps
on twittering flowers,
a hummingbird

spinning by a hibiscus
flower's nipple

feeding the bird
with life's
dripping juice.

If no mouth
can sing to devour
dad's injected pangs,

let the thousand-
mouthed breeze
of dahlias
and sharp-fingered
thistles
shine the bright

torch to sink
light and hue
into dad's
flesh and scoop
out the pain
gulping him down.