Tuesday, 10 September 2013

Unnamed - 3 am 9th April

He said

‘I found the Oya to my Shango’
In ancient times of folklore
She was his wife
Then his mistress, then his mother
So the legend goes
Either way, of these three things
I’m out of. Trinity
I saw in him, greatness
One you see in a loved best friend
Of course
This meant my Oya
Now had no Shango
In my reasoning
I could never be those things
Not mother
Well maybe, just not one
Who births her lover
So the legend goes
Besides, Freud lives no more
Not mistress, that’d be a distress
Wife, I’d consider and add
Lover. In my reasoning
This holds one thing. Mother.
Maybe to the next to come
From between us – a mesh of body, writhing spirits and soul
None of these three I am
In ancient times, when the gods walked the earth
She was his wife, mother, mistress
He said ‘I found the Oya to my Shango’
I turned to see
She was an echo of me
A reverb scratching a screeching noise
Into my conscious
Like Yemoja’s curse, I might die
This restlessness
An echo of me I thought she was
And I hear you
That line was a low blow
I admit I aimed for the jugular in zigzag blows
I looked at this Oya to his Shango
My oya spoke ‘let her go, release them both’
Burning eyes
Tears about to fall
Akin to raging hail stones
Held back as I fled
Into the night
Erzulie beside me
Always there
Saying nothing

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