Fork On A Red Blob Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

No more space for folks downstairs
wandering in a drifting desert,
as reddish pebbles hang on the mound
of a old parched tree trunk
breathing out a red flame of wind
from a shrubby sand dune.

The world had drifted high up
to the bottom of a scarlet cloud
still piling cotton pads
for a seat on a swaying branch
of sky with strings of a gloomy lyre.

(ii)

Was this a rounded drop
from a red crack under sky's flat,
or it was just a patch
of blood from an early dusk?

Was this the hanging
red fog after a hawk's chick-in-mouth
swoop with a scissoring beak
stitching taupe and brown earth
with silver and creamy sky?

Did a sea gulf's aircraft-wounded
wing spray death's red oil
on a fleeing hedge riding a unicycle,

or the hedge on four wheels
slammed on brakes running into
the ditch of a wounded flower

still whisking red petals like a wound
beneath an old man's goatee?

(iii)

Humanity's surgeon is singeing
a red-eyed wound
on the head of a fleeing toddler
tossing off a red moon.

But its still mid-day, and the sun
bleeds and bleeds, streaks of rays
flushed out to drop

on a young man's head, this blood lily
carrying the two-pronged
fork of a sun bird's legs, body burning
in withered ash of air.