Walk-In Closet Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

You've devoured
strong arms of winds
and razor mouths
of sun shredding linen

woven out of sky
clouds and waves
of sea, and gripping
grasses of hillsides,

as you chew them
with lion molars
into pieces of rags
only to return

to stuff your deep
caved-in hippo
rumbling abdomen

with new Van Heussen
sharp-angled collars
and Lulus curves.

Hanging down in cherry
and cream clouds,
from a squeaking ceiling
of rattling hangers.

Your chamber is running
out of pace and space.

(ii)

From a cubbyhole
with a few
feathery blouses
and woody shirts,

you've built an edifice
of piles of dresses
in arm-folded wardrobes
creasing all outfit

into crawling alligators
before they're won
by scarecrows of dudes.

But there're more dishes
of new blouses and shirts
for you to chew,

but you're
growing into a flophouse
of squeaking nests,

as I pull out pants
from a crab's grip, and claws
of old metal buttons
and crystal adornments
sticking out cat paws.

(iii)

You've rung bells
and crowed with roosters

when younger kids
pluck out mama's
jeweled gowns

from a tight sinking hole,
bird-feathered hands
and soft balloons
of younger fisted palms

dragging out
a squawking and shouting
trunk of clothes,

its wheels warbling
and croaking
on a smooth tight-lipped
bamboo floor.

But you hatch
only more clothes
in blazing fires
of hue from gaudy fabric,

while we catch
no glimpse of the snarling
cats and roaring lions
lurking amid
jewel-edged dresses.