The Requiem Poem by Simpa Omoluabi

Tell the vendor that for every paper sold
to strike out the unworthy headlines,
give every pretty passing girl a bleeding heart
for her hair; a heart boned with love is broken.

How could we know that one day
love would become a time to recall,
a ghostly thing to remember?

How can I forget when I squeezed out groan
after which I am asked if I want, to see blood?

‘Do you want to see blood? '

She would never know my private wanting
for the waning moon to hone into a scythe
to reap her endless land:
now a dream out of reach.

I am not comfortable and only the stars
would do to...
I cannot wait on the clock of this world,
so fling the forest of the Congo,
a deep dark towel, over the sun,
then the stars would come imprompted
to share a grief for dinner, to attend this burial
and see that as a corpse love becomes a thing to bear:
and I hope the pallbearers lay down the burden of love
againstthe rainy day...


Copyright © 2011 The Requiem by Simpa Omoluabi