The king, wandering around
his mistress' thighs, hallucinates
as his mud palace burns.
He says the ashes would make
the furious ocean repent.
Sometimes sex wears pretense
like a lifejacket to survive shipwrecks.
That is the room inside where everyone dies,
inside where the king wakes every morning
with enough hate in his heart
to sink a city
in a nutshell, touched by gravity
that makes his body a slave
to such negative energy,
to such painful jouissance.
The moon, hurriedly moving
between two bodies
soaked in silence,
also stands by the window
to eavesdrops on every confession
where the ocean promised
to never again flare the fire
that flooded the king's palace.
Like the muffled roar of a man
in climax, children behind the wall,
the king whispers to his own ghost
“I told you the ocean is my friend”
his shadow rushes out of the room as smoke.
The earth cries,
“this king is just a sweat under the armpit
he would never let the hand rest”.
Bola Opaleke is a Pushcart Prize nominee. His poems have appeared or forthcoming in a few journals like Frontier Poetry, Rising Phoenix Review, Writers Resist, Rattle, Cleaver, One, The Nottingham Review, The Puritan, The Literary Review of Canada, Sierra Nevada Review, Dissident Voice, Poetry Quarterly, The Indianapolis Review, Canadian Literature, Empty Mirror, Poetry Pacific, Drunk Monkeys, Temz Review, St. Peters College(University of Saskatchewan) Anthology (Society 2013 Vol. 10), Pastiche Magazine, and others. He holds a degree in City Planning, and lives in Winnipeg MB.