Gone Innocence

Bring the lies of childhood back
The rationales that brought an end
To questions, though spurring a few more.
Bring back the whoppers and fables,
The giant tales with opaque fingers
And the little ones with a luminescent sheen
Like a dancing shadow on the wall.
Bring back the protections that spread
On childhood dreams like guilt blankets
Throttling adventure with fear and a dare.
Bring the end of the world in invisible ropes
Laid to keep our feet from stumbles,
Within established spaces, free from harm,
But only kept the world flat for a season,
More removed like a universe away
Where magic blends with the hint of danger.



Transition
For the new vampires

It rains
With the house on fire.
Gentle soothing of acid drops
Douses the burning flesh.
Smoke bellows
Though our midday nap
From calm to coffin.
A flood after the drought 
Washes grandpa's grave away
Into tomorrow lingering nearby.
There is water now
Enough to drown in the effluence
Of our putrid comfort.
Not to drink, not to swim,
Not to feed the thirsting child.
Not to clean the wounds of history.
Not to wash the graffiti
Where our nakedness dances
With the shadows the downpours bring.




Letter To A January 6th Friend  
For CL

In the safety of West African bombs
And lapses, under rulers with gators
For garb. In the silence of tombs.

The gag of practised leather boots
On the throat of the moment, shots
Fired in the night in white hot pursuits.

In the darkness of my own silence
Against what I know to be true and strange.
In the cesspool of noise across the fence.

Memories revive the hot speech bubbles
Of our flights; angry spits of rage.
Loud ramblings of Yankees' own troubles.

Bile at stranger topics I hadn't thought
I'd hear from a bosom friend, red eyes
And rote recalls of hate points, whatnot.

Worried about you and your demons;
Worried that you bought too much stake
In the boiling moss of your home's angry sons.

Scared that you were there in that wintery cage
In the harried throng that had turned blind
To reason and country, bound up in public rage

At the Capitol where the shame of the West
Was laid bare in its mud-addled soul,
Where sense died on a full-bloodied crest.

Wondering from my distance if perhaps reason
Had found you in my absence. Whether
Hope had set you free from your own prison.

Reach out and let me know you survived
The storm that swept the season away
In a huff of vain histories contrived.

Needing visual proof that the hubris of time
And country lore has tampered your angst
At the windmills of your mind's wildest design.

About the Author:

Kọ́lá Túbọ̀sún is a Nigerian writer and linguist, author of two collections of poetry, Edwardsville by Heart (2018) and Ìgbà Èwe (2021). He is the publisher of OlongoAfrica.com and can be found at http://www.kolatubosun.com

*Feature image by Bianca Van Dijk from Pixabay