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Clifton Mwangi Poem
An amber light from a flower lamp,
Shrouds the room,
With a missing a petal,
The 75 watts bulb pierces it like a stigma,
There's an old mattress lying on the floor,
The brown cold floor with the smell of cement,
A purple bed sheet and a smelly old duvet,
It’s got flowers as part of its decor, too,
The room is full of furniture and artifacts,
Carrying impressions of flowers,
There’s an old mosquito net, you can tell it was once white,
It’s got a few holes, big enough for my head,
A man, he is boy when sleeping, is curled up inside,
He doesn’t snore, but he grinds his molars,
I know how the air between his enamel feels;
To be under a strange force,
The boy is thin and brief, but not inconsequential,
Like an ampersand.
The mosquitoes and ants woke me up,
Maybe it was the conditioner in my hair,
Or the sugar spilled on the cold cement,
He didn’t bother to sweep,
Some superstition about night and sweeping,
The cement does not know how the strokes would feel,
I know how fast careless strokes feel,
There’s a pregnant cockroach that is eating his finger tips,
I let the mother nourish herself,
Explore his skin with its antenna.
I smelt fish on his hands,
And lips.
He turns on his back and exposes his black skin,
Impressions of ribs and pelvic bone,
The anopheles dances on my skin,
I let it suck life out of me,
Careful not to interrupt,
There’s another pain superior to the bite,
It’s kept me awake for hours,
As I let another proboscis takes a part of me.
The boy sleeping under the mosquito net,
Will wake up in the morning,
Find me curled up next to his arm,
Smiling, he will tell me under the bad breath,
'You see, I told you it would be easy'.
Copyright © Clifton Mwangi | Year Posted 2009
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Details |
Clifton Mwangi Poem
The care of a wine seller,
We kiss in sibilant hiss,
Old Jamaica on her lips,
I can feel a touch of gin
A fleeting jinni,
Playing roulette in my breath,
I hear notes; semiquavers,
When our head turns, tongues churn,
In opposite vector.
I’ll take you to the festival
Of spoken word,
Present you as my piece.
My thin fingers,
Strike the red ochre,
The red on your lips,
Is it Arabica,
Roasted berries on your lips?
Am possessed, God!
Am blessed!
There’s palm wine,
In her breath,
And those round earrings,
Dancing like herring.
As murmurs lilt, heads tilt,
And ways of that ilk,
Confessions in the back,
Streams meet in us,
Currents, up and down.
Bluish wisps of dawn,
Rivulet down your face,
Ah! This is grace.
Copyright © Clifton Mwangi | Year Posted 2009
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