Happy Good Friday people!

 

 

Friday Night Live

(A Good Friday Poem)

 

Our dreams are hind sights,

travelling to the people under the earth,

journeying down the cities,

filling the centuries with sons

so fat they can’t pass the needle’s eye.

 

Only the ointment keeps faith,

in the hands of a daughter,

preparing you for burial,

the unleavened bread

calls forth mourners

 

and prostitutes eating bread

with hallowed hands.

Henna mingles with tears

at the eleventh hour when

rejected pebbles fall like death

sentences on brown earth

 

This wine sets my eyes

to still waters on barren hillsides.

This wine red in the cup.

The scarlet thread.

The broken donkey.

Linen breeches dyed in crimson.

 

The air is rich in prophecies and revolutions.

Within the olive tree, a copulation is aflame,

burning the bush full of grass widows.

The light shimmers upon the waters.

 

Light is a quiver of arrows.

Light is an earthquake.

Light is a stormy wind.

Light is a great cry,

electric on bones and skulls.

 

The bones are diving for flesh.

The shrouds are dying in the stars,

there is light in our loins.

 

© Toyin Adewale-Gabriel