From Thick Forest To Desert Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

They were tall overgrown
guys here, arms flipped
across the sky. Standing stitched
each to each in a weave

of wild elephant trunks holding
trees down troughs
of roots sunk to another sky
in a chasm running down
to new flickering stars of gems.

There were triple-headed
dudes rising with legs
flung against each other

like football players, soccer
abandoned to shrubs
and savannas of medium-sized
players with sea-sized room

for sprinting and dribbling
past lanky stalks and stems,
cartwheeling on open lanes
after a thunder of a goal,

crowds rising to plant a fire of victory,
as dusk's sleepy sun added
its own pink fire.

(ii)

Now there are open windows
through a forest,
no full and quarterbacks of trees
running through herringbone
mid-air - spinning no barrier.

The scramble of trees, backs
lowered to a narrow groove,

as grasses sneaked
a chunk of grass to roll down
between columns of undergrowth.

Bunched players of trees
are split far wide apart, no more
vines of hands to trap me,

as I rush for a ninety-nine yard
touchdown wriggling through shrubs
and low flowering plants,

scores of yawning double-paneled doors
pushing and sweeping me
through carpets of undergrowth,

as I fly through slim crowds,
cheering me with whispers,
as I make a final turn.

(iii)

I gaze into tree branches,
these warm players full of touch
and squeeze-throughs,

the sky winding down a screen
of clouds and curtains
of cerulean, arctic skies

falling on me, as I stoop, making
the most thunderous

ninety-nine-yard thunderous
touch down, only spotted

roots clapping feet in a desert
once a tightly knit forest of tree players
choking sun and moon.

Here, I used to slip past silky shadows
of rays to plant
a touchdown amid chirps and warbles
of crowds in an unshaven forest.