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