Pile Weave Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

An insect
in my rug's pile
weave

has nibbled
my sole's
cushion flesh off

with a silent
pinch and loud
bite, leaving
my foot
in rags of itself,

my feathery toes
quivering
like the teeth
of a pliable
rubber comb

raking ropy fibers
of bony hair
in a pile weave.

Curled and straight
grasses
and wriggling
creeping weeds

above stringed
creepy
undergrowth
have stolen,
chewed

and gulped down
grandma's
jewelry, as she
rolled over
her bed sofa.

(ii)

But we breathe
With our feet
Feet's deep lungs,

when stroked
and fondled
by our rug's cotton
mouth blowing
into our pores,

as we walk
on its lathered foam
and the wooly
spume:

Like storks,
we've been
waddling

through the swampy,
grassy rug
without getting
our feet wet,

except
when an drives
its needle through
the sole,

as we fly off
with eagle wings
and bobbing beaks,
eyeing
a plain satin weave.