Things I seek on a Christmas tree

By Olamilekan Wahab

The flood is walking back to its shore,
snail to its old shell,
shame to its old self.
Somehow,
there are little feathers left on my body,
there is a hope as raging as Santa red.

I longed for flight many times this year,
the closest I could reach
was the tip of a ceiling,
my squared corner ceiling.
I left a withering bermuda tree
by my window.
I too, am full of ocean sparkles.
I put on a winged stool and
I painted my cloud white,
the color of the prison I live in.

I feel God lives
in tight secrets,
in tight wishes.

If only I could see him face to face,
my question to him would be void—
a raging silence.
The language he understands
in his loneliness,
the language I speak
from my brokenness.

Thick thorns
don’t like to be touched.
Running wind
doesn’t like to be held.
I’ve never wished to be left
at a river bank this much.
Yet, I seek
the faces of my parents
on a Christmas tree
with the eyes of a smiling wind.

BIO:
Olamilekan Wahab is a budding writer, fabric and graphic designer. He loves the folk songs of Michael Kiwanuka and Beautiful Nubia, and also finds great pleasure in reading the blues poetry of Langston Hughes and Nikki Giovanni. Twitter- @thisstonez Instagram – @thisstonez