fuck your poetry contest, I WANT TO BE A REVOLUTIONARY
|
& there will be
of dewdrops falling an echo of the fading pulse in a child |
no birds singing
here of a dream a little alive, it aches |
a little alive, a wound refusing to be gagged by a torniquet can
become a mouth. a gentle pulse, a noiseless flutter, but not of birds
perching for a quartet, you could forget for a moment, the hawks
hovering are casting the shadows of copters. you could forget apples
are washed in the congo river into gold. you could miss an empty bottle
of coke drifting in your bloodstream with the coordinates to a body
a sunrise away from evaporating. you could forget
become a mouth. a gentle pulse, a noiseless flutter, but not of birds
perching for a quartet, you could forget for a moment, the hawks
hovering are casting the shadows of copters. you could forget apples
are washed in the congo river into gold. you could miss an empty bottle
of coke drifting in your bloodstream with the coordinates to a body
a sunrise away from evaporating. you could forget
at the right angle
in the light a clot of blood dissolving in a stone forgets it is blood in solid state |
of |
a rough diamond held
in the hand is nothing but a decibel of a broken voice sparkling to only remember it is mbuyi's teardrop in the sun |
at the right angle in this light, i prick my finger with a sewing needle,
& you cannot blame me for putting it in my mouth. for recognizing
the acid that dissolved lumumba's body in my veins, my blood. you can-
not keep staring at me like that. oh, praise be to my disillusionment
with flowers & cats & swans & god & — all on a thread i'm climbing
down from, to follow this trail of sweat to a mine, to be just in time
to watch a black boy pulling out a two carat ice from a sore
in his ankle, to plant it a backache deep in the ground for rediscovery.
& you cannot blame me for putting it in my mouth. for recognizing
the acid that dissolved lumumba's body in my veins, my blood. you can-
not keep staring at me like that. oh, praise be to my disillusionment
with flowers & cats & swans & god & — all on a thread i'm climbing
down from, to follow this trail of sweat to a mine, to be just in time
to watch a black boy pulling out a two carat ice from a sore
in his ankle, to plant it a backache deep in the ground for rediscovery.
Martins Deep (he/him) is a poet, photographer, digital artist, a graduate of Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria, and currently a student pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Memphis, TN. His works have graced—or are forthcoming in--Magma Poetry, Strange Horizons, Palette Poetry, Frontier Poetry, Fiyah, december, Lolwe, Tahoma Literary Review, Augur Magazine, and elsewhere. Connect with him on X @martinsdeep1, Instagram: @martins.deep