this poem is not dead

(for Eunice Dibie)

this poem should not be read in quietude
this poem should not be read alone
this poem should not be read at all
if there are no handkerchiefs in town
to mop up rivers & streams of sorrow
that draws pathways & maps on the face
this poem must be sung slowly like a hymn
without drums without cymbals without flutes
with only silence as background sound
this poem must be hummed
it must transport vibrations
to the holies of holies
this poem must remain lost in ears
as echoes from distant howls
this poem must have legs
this poem must have wings
it must travel home to warm mother's heart
to tell her her cactus is no more
that her garden is now like a desert
(tell mama if you have muscles
in your tongue and in your hands
to hold a thousand genies in one body)
this poem must fly into space
and like a rocket never come back
this poem wears a long face
this poem lies straight on the ground
facing the heavens
this poem is blind it sees no more
this poem is dead
this poem is dead
soon it would be forgotten
soon it would fade into a continuum
of numbers sinking into sand by the day
soon it would vanish from the eyes
but specks of memories would linger
this poem is dead yet invaluable
this poem is a precious gift
stolen by the quick hands of fate
this poem is unfinished business
with favourable outcomes
this poem must come back to us again
this poem is not dead

Ehizogie Iyeomoan