Taming fear; Too low to see the mirror; Breaking waves – Three Poems By Nigerian Writer, Osahon Oka

Taming fear

Today, the animal did not come out
of me, clack claws on tiles & pounce
on the nearest shadow. I gazed at my sleep
with closed eyes & snuggled close
against the soft snore of its half-open
lips. I smuggled my hips about its trunk
& on its vulnerable inner bark, I floated
over the stars & the breeze was on my skin
& in my breathing. I scented the garden
of my unwashed flesh & tasted the salt
near my lips. The animal sat at the bank,
where the water fell, for me to arrive
but I was ready; I had learnt to ride
the tides, the great walls of water,
the unending dreaming eyes that see
beneath the surf. I have tamed the beast
& I go, untethered into the world,
unafraid of who will prod, probe & hope
that I’ll bite. I’m no fish. I’m a tree,
fattened by seasons, bearing fruits
for birds & raindrops, a rainbow
carrying dew in my hair & down
in my womb. I’m a nest of follicles,
of sap & stomata, of gnarl & roar.
I’ll walk the city lights like fireflies
tinted in rose colour & dog nose cold.
Let fear its misery keep; I’m done
giving the monster a space to breed.

Too low to see the mirror

my skin is the crimson line
on the bath under the shower;
the sound of sky purpling
slow on the window sill,
shaken by dry breeze to brown
leaf. These are signs of life
— a few— where the mirror
used to be

Breaking waves

There’s a poem in the debris
carved out of the ocean wave.

It licks the salt on the shore
smelted from wound, from

stingray. & the sting of sun rays
on eyes like cold surf which see

faraway how the horizon takes off
in flight, prow set to compass,

the setting sun, a low orange
in the ocean’s shuddering breath.

Palm trees wither into bird
shadows & feathers fall, burning

with air & spray, caws & the lone
flicker of a fishing boat, net

dragging water from its bottom,
scraping depth with bone worn

hands, storm weaned, bailing
the sound of mayday from

the flotsam, the flotilla
of seaweed rising belly up,

belched like last supper
& freshly minted widows

gathered like firewood, burn
rough & hewn, until the patter

of rain fill ear drums brimful,
rims cracked like lips tasting salt

& from the corporeal silence,
the sound of plates breaking.