For a body gone wrong
How do you rebuild a broken cathedral?
Do not make a fool of me with tales
of healing and hope and heaven
for home does not taste the same
once chipped like granny’s china
bearing curses to ends and beginnings.
Mother says, ‘say a prayer son’. I open
my mouth and my words run into heads
and lips and hands burning brisk and brief
places meant for holy. Joy is a quickie
cumming and going in her seasons and
Father is an eternity, going and coming;
a little boy searching for rainbows’ end.
Mother says ‘Man must be patient. Man
must wait’. Each time I try to spell Man,
I fall into father’s fetters, and awake
covered in my lover’s blood. How does one
sing his own dirge- a mocked mother spills
into an ember of questions? Freedom is a chaff
the wind blows away, yet this temple remains
a body of wrongs, a work of art. I am enough.
Facebook: Wisdom Nemi Otikor
Wisdom Nemi Otikor believes that writing is therapeutic and sees poetry as a course to healing.
He is from the Niger Delta region of Nigeria. He still believes in love and happily ever afters- he strives daily to create his. Home to him is firstly Mom and his two younger brothers, other things can follow.
He is a bubble of laughter in a city of God.