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.
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.
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