Since I was born
and now I am young,
I have never seen the ant
drag down the sky,
nor the elephant headbutt Heaven
though it learns to fly.
I have never seen the fly
perch on the stars,
or the cricket lights dim the moon.
But dewdrops stalk the air,
into withholding its fury,
perch on leaves of grass,
fall on the boughs of trees,
drop tenderly on the ground,
and cloud the sky with love;
I have seen the lavishing of time
caress the dew’s dire death
into lingering a moment longer.
Since I was born
and now I am old,
I have never seen the faithful
taken to the cleaners;
the soul may die,
the spirit may go through hell,
though the elephant shoves the sky
with hooves and horns,
a body of love is waiting.
There will be no fresh hell,
like music in the grave,
or the sun leaving the rubble
untouched, uncomforted;
there will be no chandeliers
spread out for mosquitoes to sleep
and suck the blood of babies,
nothing like splashing pebbled mud
against us who stew in wait.
But there will be roses in the attic,
dandelions in the snow;
there will be tulips on the moon
where the lips of the stars
wait to sip their juices.
The silent smiles of the lilies
will drown the groans of Hell,
and every lurking monster in the lake
will no longer swim ashore.
Click here to read Jonathan Chibuike Ukah on the origin of the poem.
Image by Marcel Smits on unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.
- A Body of Love - March 14, 2025