Waking from a Dream where I Try to Catch my Mother’s Soul before It Makes for Paradise

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In the dream, it was day & no sooner had I closed in on the lady wearing my mother’s face than the sun died

out, its bright tumbling into a deep, amber hue. In the far corner, a shadow escaped my glance and I circled

back into reality. On waking, I emptied out my eyes into a cloth, the wet of it like that of a vagina when sloshed

apart by fingers. Four days ago, mother was put to soil. Today, I half expect her to spring into a tree with

complains for leaves; in the garage, I saw father, head into hands, shuddering in sobs. And a bird, as if calling

for a requiem/parody, shrieked outside. Why does the kitchen down the hallway suddenly take deep breaths

like it’s never been there? Imagine my shock when I hear the vacuum cleaner humming mother’s tune. In

this poem, I chisel my dead the way a wood carver emblems his chi/muse. I gift-wrap my grief only to have

it burst at the seams: a gazelle taking sharp turns in escape from a bush pig only to make for the lair of a tigress.

Grief __is that you? I call out to the spread-out-arms shadow on the far wall. Mother __is that you

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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editor@ngigareview.com
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