We flew so fast, the wind became
a scream, the prow of clouds dipped
into sunlight & the trough of birds
surfed away, black white specks
on the keel of our bodies, where
eyes meet all the gods.
The moon was there, on the edge,
waiting, any lover would, the
returning of tide from shore to wash
the face of broken shapes—crags,
fissures, graveyards of anchors
plaited with seaweed & corals—with
beach sand & motes of silvery dust.
We flew towards horizon—a line
drawn on a map of sky & sea—
& seagulls muttered curses on
the wake of flotsam we left behind.
We arrived, a jangled tune pealing
from the radio, captain repeating
storm warnings, sighting a hand
rising from a god's mouth, thunder
caught within her trembling fists.
The wind's scream tore through rain
divining drops with waning sight
portholes crowded with curious
terror as anchor rose to hold the sky,
swing us from a god's grip & sorrow
gay & arbitrary swept us into the
denuded deep, cleansed, waiting
our final repose.
BIO
Osahon Oka is a Bini/Kwale poet. He believes writing is a means of therapy. His writing has appeared on spaces like Malarkey Books, Praxis Magazine, Perhappened, Grotesque, The Friday Influence, Feral Journal, etc. He lives in and writes from Benin city, Nigeria.