Scars Poem by Felix Bongjoh

Scars
(i)

In a comet's
trail
of flashed asteroids,

they grow
on night's skin
full of
chopped ashes

over embers
of a cooling
flame and gray
scratches,

gripping with
glue sinking
roots deep

into a marrow
of memories
flapping wings.

When pansies
of scars
spin a crooning
butterfly

to wash off
its stains of scars
with waters

from a crooning
wheeled river
on a one-way trip,

let me bow
to a sky's crimson
specks of scars.

(ii)

What else
can spin
more sharply
than bones

grown from
the goldenrod
earthenware
bruise
fullof brittle
earth bricks

collapsing
on touch
and a quick
swiping brush,

when other
thorns crawl
with crowns
of man's
flagellation

stuck
to a breezy
crucifix.

They quiver
when
not kissed
with clean lips.

When swept
by winds
from bloody
eyes
cutting angles
of gales,

these soiled hands
hanging
in air's fire.

(iii)

Scars, why
do you peek
at me
with misty,
hazy eyes,

when showers
of sunlight
pour down
in cream dahlia
flowers

to cleanse
old scars, as
moments build
bridges
to stretch out
their spines,

when twenty-ton
vehicles
of rumbling grief
cross them
to my inner bowl:

(iv)

Birds fly here
in spirals
chewing off
every spider
of a scar

growing into
the vulture
that swallows
its own flesh,

as eyes ogle
at the man,
who chopped off
a baby's limbs

with a dim
scorpion scar
of a popping
muzzle,

even moments
after
mama had
cut off
with a canary song

the hand
that nailed bloody
gleaming flesh

onto a bleeding
crucifix
crowned by
the zephyr

that removes
the creeping
tarantula scar.