Gun Of An Arm Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

My arm is a tree
branch waving
fingers of leaves
in a wavy breeze

to stroke flowers
on a day's flowering
plant as tall
as sky's ceiling,

when night is a funnel
dripping with light
through a bottle's

narrow neck
into a floor of earth,
my arm folded up
into a twig

beaming with starry
leaves of night
until beams

of arrow-headed leaves
drip from a thawed sun
hanging behind
a pink horizon shedding

drops of silver
from a sky-brushing tree
yet to tumble.

(ii)

And spit out green leaves
at my fluffy cheeks,
as fingers of silver light drip

on me with bubbling
daylight, when sun
shoots down swords

of rays to slash off
green leaves
half-withered under
showers of burning sun,

as my narrow chest
shrinks into
a leafy feather,

my twiggy spine trimmed
into a slim tree branch
dropping off a sky-scratching
tree, it's only angled twig

my arm folded up
to smack off a leaf-laden
sunny wind brushing

my face with sharp
fingers of sun,
when my twiggy gun of a hand
cannot grab a gun
to shoot back at the sun.

(iii)

In the burning hearth
of sunlight, a man's arm
folds up into a gun,

a tree's swinging twig
curved and spun
with leaves that stroke

a man's stretching face
with a breeze from a nook
burying stock
and bolt beneath

the thumb of a trigger
and barrel more brittle
than a parched twig

under a splashed rainbow
sprinkling leaves
for a garland hanging down
the door to a cerulean sky.