Do the flyswatters know

 

that inside the belly of unheard voices

every hummingbird started off as

a bug? That a drop of our blood could drink

sunshine & become white sand beckoning the seas

 

& the oceans that eat up our feet to the knees

& make us dissolve in that forgotteness?

Dissolve in its wild history like nature’s

words puckered onto the opposite side

 

of its never spoken language?

How we let our dreams embrace

a cactus tree, bleeding regrets.

Though, we warm the eggs of dragonflies…

 

Do the flyswatters even know

 

that? Knows every immigrant is a collection

of words? A collection of silent syllables forced

onto the pages of a storybook in voices too scary

to be read out loud to children? Are we the blood

 

that refuses to clot or not? A song

made into an opera of bird’s salvation

hymns? Are we our own prayers or not? The echoes

climbing the ladder of our mind but calling it silence?

 

To not cry in our worst nightmares, every night

something creeps up on our soul, whispering:

“Count the Joys never counted by your emptiness.

Be the inventor

of Timecraft.

Fly into deathlessness

& back.

Sit where gods stand”.

 

But do the flyswatters know that?

 

 

Bola Opaleke is a Pushcart Prize nominee. His poems have appeared in Frontier Poetry, Rising Phoenix Review, Writers Resist, Rattle, Cleaver, One, The Nottingham Review, The Puritan, The Literary Review of Canada, Sierra Nevada Review, Dissident Voice, Poetry Quarterly, The Indianapolis Review, Canadian Literature, Empty Mirror, Poetry Pacific, Drunk Monkeys, Temz Review, Pastiche, and others. He holds a degree in City Planning, and lives in Winnipeg MB.

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