‘When I was first brought here,
Those hallways were more beautiful
Than any palace…’—Merlin
Two lines stretched apart
And we fell through.
The Isle of the Blessed.
Shrouded by mist,
Pulsing with possibility and life;
The air never extreme
Which for rain had a little silver dew.
Your voice was a given,
Green checkered with the rise
Of a yellow sun as you
Whispered, almost voiceless.
I lay bare,
Tucked in the foam of your dreams
A newborn of cupid, pie-eyed;
It was our Isle of the Blessed.
Magic happens.
Who is impervious
To a flowing stream?
Four weeks later,
I’d learn there were no ley lines,
No magic, no island.
I’d learn your voice is red,
The crunch of metal on metal.
I’m the flotsam of a wreck,
Groping for breath in the dark.
No ley lines, no magic.
We only stretch far to drink,
Fall and rise again.
I’m only smaller,
Smaller and smaller
Than I’d felt
In your wide-spread arms.
You wore gloves while taking
My drunk body.
Now the true feel of your skin glares,
Rough as it draws lines
Of friction on me.
_________
Lukpata Joseph is Nigerian. He is currently a student at the University of Port Harcourt and a part-time Software Development/Computer Programming instructor at Integral Computing and Research Center. His work has appeared in Jacar Press’ One, the Collidescope, South Florida Poetry Journal, Squawk Back Journal, and many more.
Sub-Saharan Magazine 