by Olúwádáre Pópóola
Because my grandfather's departed hands are still coffering fruits /
into the cacography of my mouth /
the moon walks 6 cubits away from the stars / soil blighted and looking for warmth / your salvation is in your blood /
leaves clapping soil raised into protests / of a body limping back into body.
By how we measure our grief / all our good is slung on the lower branches of yellowing paper /
exposing a dessicated thing /
bearing suchness with squeezed skies
like a mouth planted on legs /
expecting the bulk of rain /
sea unshackled into the pamphlets of hands /
decoding god's message in excrescences / epitaphs collected in scrapings / a body unbridled and flooding /
& a new cut on your bruised lips or is it your leg / is strumming a blessing.
Olúwádáre Pópóola is a 19-year old Nigerian poet, a student of Microbiology and a Sports Writer for a media company. He writes from a city named by rocks and longs to see the world without discrimination of any form. Learning the art of imagery, his poems are up/forthcoming on Mineral Lit. Magazine, Headline Poetry & Press, Feral: A Journal of Poetry & Art, Roadrunner Review, Lumiere Review and elsewhere. Follow him on Twitter