by Prosper Enotor
Path these curtains to my childhood, let in some light.
This poem is the clattering of a coin toss in a room the beep of a c-4 seconds away from explosion.
At age four i first learn to nod, to balance day and night on my tongue.
then, pain was not having enough toy to fill the balcony, to pile in a carton, to name after friends i only find below sleep.
Now, at dusk mother’s knees do not fail to kiss the floor. Her mouth so full of prayers it drips in her sleep, wincing each time a drool slips through the cuts on her face.
In a dimlit room, she shows me the language in silence, the braveness in tiptoes as if our home is a landmine.
At age nine i pick out the components of a laugh: the creaks in teeth rows, the bow lines stretching the lips to its cheek, the screeches beside tongues and the gas heaving through these ribs. I draw all these on a paper and mother calls it alien. Alien and nothing more.
Across these rooms, father’s yells are muffled. They don’t sound human if you press your ears against these walls. His face all crease and crumples like rubble in a fallen castle.
My tear ducts churn water like some dark cloud each time mother goal-keeps father’s blow with her stomach, each time she catches his slaps with her face.
Father is no demon. It is this country that make him measure the sharpness of blades on our skin, the depth of gnaws on our bones, how much liquid pour out when he rehearse his temper on mother. It is this country that counsels his heart with a bomb vest and edge him more and more to the tongue of cliffs.
Enotor Prosper is a drummer. Born and raised in Nigeria, Prosper currently resides in a campus at the university of Benin Nigeria where he studies English and literature. His piece, “I AM MY OWN DEATH” was a finalist for Okadabooks campus challenge. His poem, “Smokes of Prayers” came second in Elsa writing competition Uniben.