Pulitzer likes the rubble better than Paradise


Tired of writing poems of defiance
Those that reek of blasphemy and fire
Read aloud in a voice refusing to crack
Here I shall not rebel in my literature so cheap
Imbalanced: with neither rhyme nor prosody
Let my colonial tongue speak words soft
To write an ode to my lover, Exhibit A.

Exhibit A’s pair of dark eyes
Nothing like oceans, nothing like stars
Yet I dedicate couplets from a classic
Slave to Google with three unidentified words
I talk about forever in love
Despite pandemics, wars and death
Just then my words stop as if barricaded.

Someone’s forever ends with a knee jerking their neck
Beleaguering them so that they can’t breathe, they can’t breathe.

Moving on, transfixed on my token to Exhibit A
I start to compose an ode to the valley
Where drops of Paradise were poured
And wonder if rivers ever flow
Beneath the gardens there?

But what about the rivers of blood
A child on a body casing a dead heart
The Pulitzer likes the rubble better than Paradise.

Exhibit A likes not my poems anymore
Hence I quote a poet who loved better
Exhibit A, worry not if you find us separated
Again and again and again
For “I will come again , my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand miles.”

Ten thousand miles
What about the ten thousand miles
A fullstop to sixteen men
Their hungry ghosts haunt the rich palaces
Regret not eating those chapattis.

A semi-colon to the life of an infant
Who can’t suck a dead mother’s milk.