Sickling Through for Soul Balms
& in the morning,
we slid like ornaments glittering with oversized adjectives
in the follicles of our father’s praise.
We warmed our teeth in tinted happiness, welling
up as butterflies fluttering in the country of father’s body.
We’re a host of glow-worms
in which our father’s grief diminishes in
green light. Day by day, we sneak into
the taste buds of our father’s rattling prayers,
spurning spicules of reminisces fruiting in us, fears.
Admit grief, father is a balcony of abstract gardens,
where love blooms like soft petals of homestead flowers.
& his humor, streaming like fine wines in which our trifling tempests ferments.
O, how sweet to find fragility cradling in the chaotic arms of fatherhood,
leaving us wrapped in the foliage of succor.
Holding forte, we prune this wild, sickling through —
not for acinus or vesicles but for soul balm.
Contributor’s Bio
Chinemerem Prince Nwankwo is currently an undergraduate of History and International Studies, University of Uyo, Uyo, Nigeria. He loves to read and write about Africa, women, and children. He is a staunch supporter of Arsenal FC. He usually writes from the bustling city of Port Harcourt to the cool city of Uyo. To him, poetry helps him to navigate the world around him. Prayer walk, visiting, and seeing movies is a way of winding off for him. Say hello to him, on Facebook @ CP Nwankwo, and Instagram @ nwankwo.cp.
