Martyr

by Pamilerin Jacob

Javardh/Unsplash

In my heart, a meadow, where all the birds are single-winged awaiting the bravery of the first to pluck his plumes, develop a finger, The truth is pouring through a keyhole, hot & dense. You could not make a martyr out of me. I know too much how to disappear when the blood gets hot. Galloping through morning mist, waiting for my wings for something ripe to compete with dawn’s bright. My heart, swollen like a bicep, throbbing in search of the God-slice. Always chasing after God, when, right here his fingers flip each page of my life like a child studying for finals. I’d tried sharpening my thumb into a sickle, something to hold him dear, near. This dizzying eye, unreasoning heart, this polluted red coursing through me, useless for the cloud-dark annals of faith. Yet, from these lips angels hop into daylight, wingless. How ridiculous, the methods of holy. The pearl of me rolling into His eye.

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Pamilerin Jacob’s poems have appeared in POETRY, Lolwe, The Rumpus, Agbowó, Palette, 20.35 Africa, & elsewhere. He is the Founding Curator of Poetry Column-NND and Poetry Sango-Ota. Twitter: @pamilerinjacob