Dipe Jola
Red Night, Candles and Moaning
My lover's body is a city of landscapes - in between oceans
& rocks & mountains & beaches & borders & me - torn with
diversities and a mouth shaped into footmarks structured along
the path to heaven. One, he is a sucker for slim figures coupled
into a corset like a collection of stars along the body of the sky.
My lover's body is a ghost of flower petals bidding breathes to
thrusts and pants to the gentility of the night. Two, he is made
from everything in between light & borders & oceans & night
& candles & me. Three, he pitches his loneliness on the littlest
of things - like the mark on my right breast, like the shape of
my lips, the volume of my wound, like the weight of my ghosts.
My lover's body is a different kind of salvation - not tears & fears,
not empty corridors salted in the ghost of absence, not sea lines
bleached into no colours - of red nights and candles and the tales
of Shrek, how ugly we get? I shriek out between the borders, the
lanes rippled in lipids and liquor, the sailboat rowing my contours
like supermarket carts copulating with floor greased in effectiveness.
Four, he is a fan of our body in perfect sync. Love letters littering
the tiles, a disco of angelic tunes - in bodice, breaths hitched and
lungs pleading for air. Five, a city in paradise melts on his arrival,
he is a fan on wars fought on bodies as everything is within the
palm of his hands - muffled cries, blades, borders, blue & me.
& rocks & mountains & beaches & borders & me - torn with
diversities and a mouth shaped into footmarks structured along
the path to heaven. One, he is a sucker for slim figures coupled
into a corset like a collection of stars along the body of the sky.
My lover's body is a ghost of flower petals bidding breathes to
thrusts and pants to the gentility of the night. Two, he is made
from everything in between light & borders & oceans & night
& candles & me. Three, he pitches his loneliness on the littlest
of things - like the mark on my right breast, like the shape of
my lips, the volume of my wound, like the weight of my ghosts.
My lover's body is a different kind of salvation - not tears & fears,
not empty corridors salted in the ghost of absence, not sea lines
bleached into no colours - of red nights and candles and the tales
of Shrek, how ugly we get? I shriek out between the borders, the
lanes rippled in lipids and liquor, the sailboat rowing my contours
like supermarket carts copulating with floor greased in effectiveness.
Four, he is a fan of our body in perfect sync. Love letters littering
the tiles, a disco of angelic tunes - in bodice, breaths hitched and
lungs pleading for air. Five, a city in paradise melts on his arrival,
he is a fan on wars fought on bodies as everything is within the
palm of his hands - muffled cries, blades, borders, blue & me.
Biography
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Dipe Jola is a poet, a lover of nightmares scribbled into lines of poetry. Published in Kalahari Review, Echelon Review, Turnpike Magazine, NantyGreens, African Writer, Scynchronised Chaos, amongst others. She was the First runner up for the Eriatar Oribhabor Poetry Prize, 2018. She finds her way in life by writing what she sees, feels and hears. She writes from the lower bed of a two-bunked bed in Lagos, Nigeria. Can be reached on Twitter via @Jola_ng
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