- a rolled paper full of half-burnt names
- a wet brown paper whose dryness at one of its edge is
a weary shape of my country’s map.
- a camera. i switched on this recorder of fire & loss. the
last series of unprinted oxymorons there are tanker
explosions, a farmer in a maize farmland drowned by
the hunger of some cattle, & a formless body
draped from a sea, maybe
father took his death selfie before he dissolved in echoes. maybe
- a ministry of dry gin bottles. roofless as if absence is a bomb blast.
- a tin rust of his coffined fragrance.
- a shirt. the sleeve, eaten up by a severe silence in the
anger of flames. that’s the summary of absence when you
look closely enough to discover it’s a prophecy oiling
- an incomplete poem. to be complete is giving all holes
in your body a feel of home. the poem ends with loss
& an ellipsis. I didn’t say ellipses are pints of blood. Yes.
- an old age too early to become seeds. a childhood of paternal ruins.
- a dentition-designed piece of biscuit. with its remains you’d know he was
killed while eating.
- prayers quartered by water halfway my continuous search. amen
Mesioye Johnson is a writer who loves the darkness of the world, hence, the gift of art he gives.