in the beginning there was a bird, and the bird came
with the voice of a rushing storm, and all the
things that the storm passed through became statues,
things black as the thin coating of silhouettes
so that remembrance became the vestiges of bolts
of cropped light,
and laughter could not leap past the candle smoke.
meanwhile, a parrot is crying across the shelf.
there is a torn chapter in the book where a bartender
is seen photographing our locked arms
I hiss into an empty room and watch memory cough
a flowing thing that resembles a rivulet into my
the moon punctures my back with a yellowing of
warm light– a vase shape-shifting
through organic milkweeds. in describing the brunette
whose voice is a red piano
I lean into the music of the impermanence of things.
if you listen more to the stones under rushing water,
if you force a finger down the dark hallways of your
throat and pore over the elasticity of
friendship, the haunted sheets of knowing will smudge
the fossil-red breadth of caravan
to own our kind of fire is to wound the universe
at its floodgates of flushing light–
Goodnews Karibo is from Rivers State, Southern Nigeria. His works have been published by African Writer, Stone of Madness Press, The Cloudscent Journal, and others. You can find him on Twitter @goodnews_karibo or on Facebook as Karibo Goodnews.