From Oriole Flame To Stork Storm Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

An oriole in the deep forest nest
of a hollow kitchen stacked with dishes
in a narrowed-in bowl, I spun
darkness in the loneliness of an ancient cave.

I stacked dishes flowery with puffy
grease of stains, patches of meals
and crawling leftovers
sticking out harlequin and lime stars

to twinkle as I scrubbed and passed
a thousand mini oval and round skies
of plates through a voracious
dish-washing croaking machine.

At the end of a scrubbing, sprinkling
and rinsing feat, a hissing snake
hid itself, as misty vapors crawled
out with sparkling dishes,

the machine's pouting mouth hanging
ajar for more dishes to devour.

But it got only a button's push
To brush its teeth with a seaweed
tooth paste, a gel that rattled
and thudded through, leaving the square
metal box as cloud-free as it had been

before a storm of dish-washing
blew through, pouring heavily
and drizzling throughout the afternoon.

(ii)

That winter burnt me through
and through with its cold hands brushing
my skin with melting ropes
of thorny ice that tied and pinched me,

numbing my bones into weightless
nailed-in and glued limbs,
until I felt like a French loaf of bread,

breaking out in shreds
from a crust as scaly as scabies.
I floated my pithy puffy
core in an attire with brittle crumbling walls.

The yellow butterfly flame
of ambition lit my face
like an oriole's beak after a match stick
had struck my way to a far-flung

island amid flickering crystals
and steel-tight distals
of will pulling me from a tail,
whose head was storm.

(iii)

I was storm in a large-mouthed storm
nibbling off and devouring me,
as I ploughed my eroded way in a gorge
through a storm in a trench
of winter towing me every day
to a stretchy flying restaurant
and back, keeping up with flowery dishes,

whose feathers I plucked all night
until my own life was preened.

And I could flap the wings of a white stock
waddling through ponds I sip
and breathe in gleaming memories

in far-flung waters, I sometimes
ride deeper waters and fly to silver
towers swelling the skies.

But my slowed pace
to chopped creeping strides
has cut off albatross's wings
I would have liked to wear -
buttons buckled up from wrist to shoulder -

and will wear whenever
my wings are feathered again.