shooting range
!
in every unfinished poem, a boy
relearns the meaning of love,
his cherubic wings shrivelling
like discolored petals, an angel
with a broken halo. a cathedral burns
in his palms, and he melts
every weight on his shoulder
into an orimson. lord,
let me make it home tonight.
mama plucks each bead of her rosary
with psalmodic tears. even the maker
of the universe fell into the hands of men and
Jesus wept.
the night is concealed in my skin, yet
i fear the dark,
and whatever lights it up:
words, swords, words, books, gunfire.
!!
in every published poem, a country
unlearns the meaning of love,
sprinkling gravity into every dialogue because
whatever unsupported mass that ascends
must fall: breaths, lives, bodies, bodies.
exceptions: prices, bullets, headlines.
a country hears a mother's prayer that her son
strays not into the shooting range,
but carves an anthem out of her tears instead.
Muheez Olawale is a finalist at Lagos State University, Ojo, pursuing a degree in English Language. His works have appeared in Brittle Paper, PoetryColumnNND, The B’K Mag, The AprilCentaur, Hawkeye, and elsewhere. By day he researches the intersection between language and social habits, and by night he works on his debut novel. He grams and tweets @_muheezolawale.
