Teardrop Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

It spins
a pendulum's
pivot

steering
a gob and strings
of thick water

hanging
on the cheek
like a glued
fly turned
ornament

to grow a flower
of night
settling
with
sun ray beams.

Seal your ears
to the ringing
bell,
this tapered
silver

tracing the path
of a river
leaving ashy silt
to stick out

with strings
of moonstone.

Quartz and topaz
also spread
by cream lakes

cannot hide
crimson edges
of blood
that binds
more than glue.

Why does
the mourner
not hang
her teardrops

like magnesite
beads
on her broken
neck hung
on the girder
of a cloud?

(ii)

Misty face
when more clouds
wheel in
for the nimbus

that takes
the teardrop
to its home
in the nebula,

the wild
forest of beasts
to maul
and grind

cheekbones
into barnacles
gripping
with hands of crabs

the only
silver stars
twinkling
with
caved-in depths
of the volcano

exploding
into more tributaries
from a trunk,
the flooded river
of hot lava

drowning
its bells to ring
with the low voices
of budgerigars,

after parrots
have cut off
their low-voiced
rolled bells
now humming

with a teardrop
brewing
a downpour
of rain

O piercing arrows
left to cut
through flesh,

leaving no bandage
or plaster
to cover deep wounds.