lakes and confessionals
i kneel before the confessional. the priests’ voice
is driftwood on a lake of abuses; it reminds me of beatings.
how can god speak through a mouthpiece so harsh?
the gun on my nightstand is a transport to places
where fate is a river between two tales. each tale is blue
from god skidding off its surface in ill disguised glee.
the priest asked if i chose to kill myself with a colt?
the lord chose to ride on a mule, not a horse drawn carriage;
wooden things are an invitation to go berserk.
the devil is in the loch ness, i answer. the lakes of
february’s soul. hell is a cold and dark place where the devil
always keeps a monday. i never give thanks for mondays.
he asks again why i confess a sin not yet committed.
i tell him because my pride keeps me from mistakes.
i tell him on the morrow i must own my life.
brew
a field of barley bleeds its colour into my pockets.
my proletariat veins cannot comprehend the lust. the sun
is a little plump bitch dancing in the sky
for the beer in my cup. she begins to count one bottle,
two bottles, three green bottles on the floor. i succumb
to the rains which fill the gutters, which fill my mind with the shit.
i have known god in the apparitions of wine and chalices. i have seen
loss in the orgies of church basements. the rain’s shit is a reprieve
from the designs the divine leaves in my head.
my proletariat mind cannot comprehend a god who lives in wine bottles;
or the stick thin paradise of wafers. but still, a holy mary before i bed
a whoring lady. i too am a whore, for the spirits in tabernacles.
——————————————————————————————————————–
Anyah Richard works for a publishing firm in Ibadan. He schooled at that city’s university. He lives with his dog whose name is Courage, and still has imaginary friends.
Be The First To See New Work on Agbowó
[email-subscribers namefield=”YES” desc=”” group=”Public”]