Marigold Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

The gold face
of a flower
switched
to light up

potholes like those
of dented
marigold's petals.

In light's translucent path,
holes and dents
opening mouths
quietly to let you grasp

a sun-lit doorstep,
but hides snares
to ignite a deep
bone-breaking fall.

(ii)

You're not
not grabbed
with stretched condor wings
in the house

for a full hug
until the door
closes behind you,

when little space
rings and drums
for you to plump down
into a seat.

After hanging
outside a door step's
cream and silver
overture
channeling light to pass
with a visitor's ray,

settle down
into every petal's stool
like scores
and hundreds
of other standing guests.

Like a trumpet,
lift up a marigold flower
by its pedicel,

the mouthpiece
to let you blow into
a marigold's trumpet,

as its thousand
petals fly at you
with ribbons of moths
to hover over

a comet's
brightening rays
without burning themselves
in a flower's flames
and fire
of splashed light.

(iii)

I'm not
the buzzing bee
heading for

your deep vein's blood,
but just the gaudy
butterfly,

a visitor clothed
in a rainbow
to arch over a lit path.

Let your headlamp
sweep through
night's blinded eyes,

when every ray
spins quivering
spears shot to rip
open an onyx door,

as you widen your eyes
for a deep
drumming kiss.