Nothing but a history of anatomy(After going through hernia surgery twice, father declined into a second stroke the following year on the same date he had the first. He started showing bits of senility and whenever he holds on to pieces of stuff, we have to pry it from his stiff and affected hand)
Before my father’s hand went stiff from forevering,
Before his fingers became obstinate bones leaving mottled imprints on the towels,
Before I knew my father’s brain to be an abyss spiraling everything into a void,
I knew them to be the world’s capacity for big leaps
Before I knew my father’s eyes to be a door into wan memories,
i knew them to be innocuous pleas raised as a supplication to the sky.
A mouthful of prayers fastened to a cry.
Hosannas upon the witching hours.
An array of trombones at the night’s feet and he glorified God with songs too large for his mouth.
How feasible is a body you no longer own?
How plausible is history when it becomes an echo ebbing into the distance?
How permissible is life when you realize someday your body won’t be too big to fit a coffin?
Bio: Kei Vough Korede, Nigerian, Musicologist is a 20 years old poet. He is a good boy but considers himself a flaxen xenomorph. He’s a Stan of Ocean Vuong but believes on earth we can be overtly gorgeous. He’s handsome and sad but that’s ok. Twitter: @KayVough
Banner: For Our Fathers. Digital Art by Robert Frede Kenter (c) 2021. Twitter: @frede_kenter