Cowries and Rosaries
Watching the ants cascade granules
of sugar down the mound of the earth
reminds me of my mother leading me to the
pulpit for the preacher man to save my soul.
Come, son, let your old mother take you
to God. And when I told her I couldn't feel a
thing, a shush would run down my spine,
like the gelid slap of holy water bruising
my toughened caramel skin, saying:
I want to kiss your birthmark...
Sometimes I wonder where everything
goes when the sound of mortars and pestles
disappear; my mother is always too
shocked to weave her mouth around the
stories, so she makes us wait. But why
wait till the night? Why is the night,
perforated with silence, unspoken of? Why
does my father bury his face into his mat,
even when he tells us:
This, here, is where I want my body laid.
I still remember solemnly, how the rain
of yesterday pierced the carapace of our spirits.
The embers have gone cold now, and so
so have our ambitions, my sister and I.
And the shrine that once used to stand
tall beside our home now wavers; as if
waiting for me to say it...to say:
Mother, I have sinned, I no longer feel
religion. And mother would always go on to
rewound the cassette player, that if I be
gladdened in heart, might just dance off-key
to such foolishness.
This too is the reason why it reekingly is
blasphemous to place Santa above Ani; that
is why I couldn't throw away the cowries at
the behest of rosaries. For what difference
can be alluded to these contraptions?
of sugar down the mound of the earth
reminds me of my mother leading me to the
pulpit for the preacher man to save my soul.
Come, son, let your old mother take you
to God. And when I told her I couldn't feel a
thing, a shush would run down my spine,
like the gelid slap of holy water bruising
my toughened caramel skin, saying:
I want to kiss your birthmark...
Sometimes I wonder where everything
goes when the sound of mortars and pestles
disappear; my mother is always too
shocked to weave her mouth around the
stories, so she makes us wait. But why
wait till the night? Why is the night,
perforated with silence, unspoken of? Why
does my father bury his face into his mat,
even when he tells us:
This, here, is where I want my body laid.
I still remember solemnly, how the rain
of yesterday pierced the carapace of our spirits.
The embers have gone cold now, and so
so have our ambitions, my sister and I.
And the shrine that once used to stand
tall beside our home now wavers; as if
waiting for me to say it...to say:
Mother, I have sinned, I no longer feel
religion. And mother would always go on to
rewound the cassette player, that if I be
gladdened in heart, might just dance off-key
to such foolishness.
This too is the reason why it reekingly is
blasphemous to place Santa above Ani; that
is why I couldn't throw away the cowries at
the behest of rosaries. For what difference
can be alluded to these contraptions?
BIO:
Prosper Ifeanyi is a Nigerian writer. He was shortlisted for the Libretto African Anthology Prize (LAAP) in 2021. His works are featured/forthcoming in Identity Theory, Lumiere Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Salamander Ink Magazine, Kalahari Review, Terror House Press, Aôthen Magazine, 2022 Libretto Anthology and elsewhere.
Prosper Ifeanyi is a Nigerian writer. He was shortlisted for the Libretto African Anthology Prize (LAAP) in 2021. His works are featured/forthcoming in Identity Theory, Lumiere Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Salamander Ink Magazine, Kalahari Review, Terror House Press, Aôthen Magazine, 2022 Libretto Anthology and elsewhere.
