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Chuma Nwokolo Jr.
Bombs and Churning Milk
Dedication: for victims of landmines.
the math was scribbled on the yellowing page
false, anonymous
shorn of further sense and referent
it seemed a formula failed
arithmetic abandoned
as cryptic as a minefield from a war forgotten
perhaps it once was central to a tax refund
perhaps coordinates for a lost landmine
today it is a scribble on a page elapsed.
twelve digits on a scrap,
still adding
subtracting
exploding
while bombs rain and
the rage of hatred flares
it is hard to enthuse over eggs
or write the poetry of churning milk.
eggs that hatch and are eaten.
milk that sours unattended.
bombs that wait
and wait. and
wait
I do not want a crate of thirty-six
or half a dozen eggs.
I have four pence no less
for one egg no more
for the rage that flames must flare
one day at a time. at the lives
twisted from eggs and milk
by bomb in the barbed-wire grass.
Soothsaying 101
The days are evil, Al Mubari,
and we seek your wisdom:
my son would go to Spain,
would cross the seas and make his
way to Europe in a fishing boat.
here, your divining fee,
firstborn of Wisdom’s own firstborn,
whose evening eyes behold the gods.
whose morning song bewitches birds:
is this journey blessed, or what?
will he live?
will he prosper?
what see you beyond our mortal horizons?
*
hail from clouds and hair from skinless dogs,
tobacco from the hills of hell itself -
or cash in lieu thereof…
your fees are fat, Jado,
now hear the oracle:
I see cheques from Spain,
see wealth beyond the seas.
this son returns triumphant
on the shoulders of his peers.
go in peace in the crook of Fortune’s arm, Jado,
remember me when He comes knocking -
*
Look well, Mubari,
with a father’s eye
his brothers too are three years gone
without a word from Spain.
confound this mother’s doubt that says
he goes to seal their silence.
he alone is left,
and though the rains have failed again,
at least my river flows.
at least our rivers flow.
my womb did not fill thrice
to feed the hungers of the sea,
so look again, Al Mubari,
confound this mocking doubt that sees
me weeping daily here until my dying day.
what do you see beyond those horizons?
*
seers don’t lie. this is the lion’s prayer:
may tomorrow’s breakfast eat well today.
what I said is true, now and forever… but,
looking back with a father’s eye, Jado,
those cheques will bounce,
and the greatness comes with heaviness,
for he rides upon the shoulders of pallbearers.
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