She Melted Off Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

The dark clouds
dived down
with giant hands
and swooped
her off to a spot

she could not
tell us,
when she took off
to a rock-lined canyon valley,

as cave mouths
coughed out night
and gaped
with a gyre,

and a wallowing fire
from our deep core
scooping out
from a sinking gorge
onyx detritus.

And only a breeze
sang to us
with a bird's whisper
and a river's croon.

(ii)

And we exploded
out of ourselves
into ourselves,
leaving our volcanos
breathe out

all glowing coals
to ignite
red flowers of love.

But she melted off
through a trench
under her spiraling bed:

She'd climbed
up a steep staircase

behind that tree
by her gale-driven window
flapping itself
against a bobbing pillow -

like a big bird
grabbing a gear
over a rising willow

to cruise over
an ocean folded up
by a storm wave.

But in the storm,
we could not hear
the hibiscus
of crab-gripping love

from a scarlet hearth
trumpet flower
booming out

a voice tethering
us to an orison
in the hum and buzz

of a sniveled wince
from a thousand
deep hollowed-out
whizzing throats.