It is said that the time a boy
gets his first pubic hair, he
becomes a scavenger thirsty for
moans and hands and blood.
His mother's voice thickens to the
moon. It becomes one Monday
to the taste of resurrection.
The boy's body is a small dream,
floating away into a village of
setting suns. Like this, they say
he resembles the night. So he must
be a close relative to the chill and
heat of orgasms. A dream we all
wish our heads were soaked with
But the boy is drenched already,
with the excitement of groins and
a cascade of voices.
Perhaps, too, he writes a poem—
and points a gun to his regrets.
There is the story of a boy I do not
know—he is carrying his body to
the ocean, because he had learned
that blue is the slow colour of heaven
Bright Kingsley, hailing from Nigeria, is a poet, teacher, blogger and art enthusiast. He is currently a student of the Rivers State University, Port Harcourt. His poems have been published in Brittle Paper, Spill Words Press, Afrihill Press and other literary websites/platforms. He believes that art is language of the earth, a means by which she is consistently trying to express herself.
Rough Diamond Poetry 