DIVINE INYANG TITUS
stardust
he mutters his name with splintered
apologies -
as if to say, I would be unworthy of eyes
had I not been marooned in this spire
of a body.
he bows his penance and pleads forgiveness
with each contact - even though
he could reach his hands into the chandelier above
and dispossess the sun - even though
his long, lean frame is
the method of gods to humble the arrogance of sky.
perhaps, as we clap hands, memory barks
a command and laughter floods the room:
he is back in the pastoral countryside
with other youglings, the sky is low and
somber; the boys are all pointing at him
in throes of unearthly laughter
smacking their heads; as if to say,
God, you made a very fine joke with this one.
perhaps, as I peer into his eyes and crack
my mouth to recall
epithets from stars, he winces
in recollection: now in that time ago, he cooed
love to a woman
and she wielded too many 'too's to tell him
his body was a monument to things that exceed
love with their ghastly redundance.
perhaps she did not sneer, but wore pity
on her visage, as if to say -
you would be worthy of love had you not
been a metaphor for superfluity.
I try anyway: I say to him: you look like God
met a woman, left her a tower to his memory,
that the miracle of stardust is always
at fingertips.
he gawks in utter disbelief, then
makes to avert his eyes in apology, but remembers
today is not the day he is construed as
a malformed song
or the ancient tree accused of harboring the witches.
calmly, he reclaims himself and exhales
a warm thank you, miniscule and radiant
like the miracle of stardust.
cycle of teeth
three or four syllables ago, I wound up in front
of a narrow mirror.
to look my body in the eye, I have to brace myself,
clench my teeth, wipe the dream from my smile, steel
my gut for these voices that do knifelike things,
and disembowel with a swipe of laughter.
hate is a strong word, so between sobs, I drivel:
the voices that prescribe unlove to my body
are bold and swift, like bullets, reddening my teeth
with blood and sprinkles of unworthy dirt -
who is it that will kevlar a body that does not kevlar itself?
two syllables ago, I bit down on myself so as not to scream,
as though when I bite self, it won’t bite back harder,
a cycle of teeth.
I’ve grown or ungrown my body into a garden of scarecrows -
overhead, there are circling vultures that
must not find me breathing my unworthy body to rest.
in the grimace of every passing thing, I hear a betrayal -
and I beg.
and they lecture me on how best to love my body -
poignant essays on attractiveness, on molding my body
into fantasy, so the claws of vultures will forget.
one syllable ago, a morpheme spewed from my mouth to break
the cycle of teeth,
four letters, bleeped where the world has need
to assuage intensity, but not here, in front
of my narrow mirror,
where I am brash and untrammeled,
and unraveling in questions.
how come love only knows a set of skins, a length of shoulder,
one kind of eye, one form of bones,
and no heart -
how did we wake up and say to one:
you look like a body deserving of flowers, and to another:
you look like a body deserving of vultures?
Divine Inyang Titus is a writer, performance poet, and songwriter, keen on exploring the nuances of the human experience through art. He is the winner of the STCW Future Folklore Climate Fiction Contest, 2021, the 1st Runner-up for the Nigerian Students Poetry Prize (NSPP) 2021, and a winner of Shuzia Poetry Prize. He is the author of the chapbook “A Beautiful Place To Be Born”. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Brittle Paper, The Parliament Literary Journal, The Shallow Tales Review, The Puritan Literary Magazine, The Kalahari Review, and elsewhere. He deeply enjoys reading, making music, and observing the rudiments of excellence.