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I Collect what Remains of this Poem in another Dream
“& soon, outside my window, my name rose like hundred hymns.
it was dawn. &.” ___Nome Emeka Patrick.
I was on nodding terms with my father before he became a passed away. In the mirror, I still nod at his ghost, our eyes wet with things unsaid; there’s the rusty silence, the mirror cracking under pressure. There’s only much a ghost can do: a nod in the mirror, a creak at the door, an embrace of chill when you lie spread-out-arms into a sleep of ghost dreams. Last night, my father made to reach out, his hands the ochre of fresh wounds. In his eyes, the red of clay when you burn for long. Frail as I am, I couldn’t have him, I burst into waking, my eyes alert; the darts of my pupils, the scrutiny of a mouse in a house of cats. In another room, my mother hums & a cricket, as if tuning to her melody, chirps in response – I collect what remains of this poem in another dream: my father is a ghost amidst other ghost and I am what they ghost-clad. The tallest, holding a talus to my temple, spins out my head. Another, with a gentle clatter, affix a skull into place: hollow eyes, hollow nose, teeth like teeth except for the absence of flesh. My father tweaks my skull a little more, making certain it doesn’t fall out. In the dream, we don’t talk. You could get hanged, your ghost body hanging loose like curtains on the line. “& soon, outside my window, my name rose like hundred hymns. It was dawn. &.”
About the Author
Enotor Prosper is a drummer. He has tutored/is tutoring in Test House tutorials (G.brains), Solid Education Centre, Starbrains Tutorials, Premiere Lectures. His poem and short stories have appeared/forthcoming in Ethelzine, Young African Poets Anthology(Brittle Paper), Praxis Magazine, Elephantsnever, Pencillite, U-RIGHTS MAGAZINE. Say,”hi” in twitter@NezyorNezy
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