Climb Centipede Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Crawl, crawl
centipede
pulling a lorry
carrying
a full Load
of timber,

your spine
breaking
into
cumulus
clouds, as you
grow into

a cotton
and lace
patch,
climbing a wall's
stiff hill,

its rocky path
sticking
out

a mountain's
slithering,
tilting spine.

Climb
jumping,
your bicycle
pedaled
like a camel,

as you
bump
through
a deep, deep
pothole

raising you
to hit sky,
and you
flip over

to tow
yourself
back into
position,

your
dromedary
no longer
the driver,

as it dives
into
a tantrum

below
a sand dune
in the valley

deep down
a sinking
gorge
on the wall.

(ii)

Crawl, crawl
centipede
by a cliff
you don't
see
on the wall,

as you
toboggan
along,

your
stretchy legs
hanging
in the air,

a storm
blowing you
off your feet
floating you
through the edge

of a jagged
staggered
embankment
making you

cartwheel
down
a shallow slope,

as you rise
back on this
rough
alligator back

of a sprawling
wall in my
room,
and veer off
a corner
of a hanging
picture,

carrying hilly
horns
on a narrow
frame, lilies
of scratches
in their beams
pulling you.

(iii)

And when your
trip is over,
as I lie down
in bed
peeking at you,

I still see
you
on the same spot,
dew in my eyes,

a screen
of smoke
crawling across
my pupils.

And now I see
only
a glued wall worm,
a casebearer

breathing in
air from its
planted fort.