Praise Song For Myself

i celebrate myself, and sing myself.
—Walt Whitman

i am a gardener tending to the boy in my mirror/ each day i plant kisses on his lips/ & swallow the thorns he carries in his mouth/
and while the sun sleeps/ behind the hillside/ i water the kisses & sweep out the weeds in his garden

i don’t mean to sound evil/ but i am freaking jealous// of the man this boy is turning into/ how comfortably he sits his demons down/ each dawn and consoles them/
& how he overfeeds himself with courage and whitewash his face with glittery smile// jealous

of the man this boy is turning into/ how the rainbow crawls on two knees asking/
for his permission before publishing itself in the sky/ and his strengths and his weaknesses too/ and how porous he is/
every bad weather that comes his way pass through him/ without any efforts & leaving no traces// and i am jealous

of the man this boy is becoming/ of how this flower is blooming// of how this boy collects his shattered parts and weaves them
together/ before the moon crosses the sky//
becoming anew. 

About the Author

Abuoya Eruot writes from Paynesville, Liberia. He’s a budding poet and a worshipper of music, who gathers muse from personal experiences, happenings in society, and nature. His works have been published in African Writer, Praxis Magazine, Eboquills, Odd Magazine, etc.

Ngiga
editor@ngigareview.com
We're legion

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