The Baby Upstairs Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

Throughout the moonlit
burning night, oil lamps blinked
and widened eyes from outage

to outage. Wick-steered light
from lanterns oozed out
with steady glows - only dimmed
by the jerky screams

of winds flying through slats
without a window frame shelter;

no hammer-handed apron
nor hinges
to hold in strayed metal pieces
in caved-out yawning air.

But they slept in the enclosed
fort of an apartment
with no crack for an ant, no flight
route for a midget.

(ii)

Until early dawn crept in
with more sobs and screams
singing through tree leaves,

more choked jerky chuckles
rattling through a light mellow
voice, a sharp piercing yelp
toned down to sighs and whispers.

O whimpering baby,
stop cutting night's silent
plastic body, the stropped edge

of your voice sweeping
through like a stainless steel dagger
in the drawled
stammered-out wind.

(iii)

Walls mewl and the ceiling
whimpers. A baby upstairs sighs
with a whispered hush

from a mother cutting morning
too with swords of windy wails.

More blades of winds pull sharp
finger-sipping sighs.

A mother's yowl with a collapsing
tree branch down in the yard
drives the baby's cot nearer,

to the wild cat eyes of a newspaper,
its front page flying with the wings
of a stretchy caption:

"More orphaned babies
to land in the yawning
caves of limping apartment buildings
for refugees with no claws
and no wings to fly".