Execration

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Execration

in a dream that cradles me awake; 

I watch my father burn like the tongue of a 

prayer warrior awaiting the entrance of rain. 

I lobby for the safe passage of his soul to wherever

the ship sets its sail. I pluck 

a dandelion from calvary. a chrysanthemum, peony,

sunflower, forget-me-not (worry less, some memories

are shadows that even god’s light cannot efface) 

& I lay his grave, riddle it with          a piercing gaze.
 

                  I descry a river, bathe his name

off my skin. every place his fingers have left its prints,

disrobe this glaring resemblance. immerse myself

long enough to be born again 

                                                             without dying.

in a previous poem, forgiveness is the unburdening

of grief. in this, forgiveness is a burden itself. & years

of misprision, father, has crippled my shoulders too

much to bear any weight, barring the tears that collate

                                                              at my collarbone. 

when I wake, I pray to find his ashes gathered 

in a native urn, sleeping peacefully on the nightstand. 

I am a wasteland, waiting for the harvest of a dream,

for the merry bloom of a miracle. 

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How An End Begins

for Chadwick Boseman

the beginning of death is [not] air

disremembering the footpath that leads to your 

lungs / is [not] closed eyelids locked with keys

that rests in the belly of a mammoth / is [not]

your heartbeat neglecting its significance in 

life’s orchestra. today, I honour the passing of 

a man I’ve never met with a sullen tribute / 

a task which punctures clouds of disquietude 

in my mind, washes off the face of calmness. 

mother says: there is no guarantee that you 

would see the freshness of the morning sun / or 

watch your dreams blossom into ripened 

fruits. all you have is now. the beginning of death

is a word falling into the flume of silence.

a man welcomes a prophet into the citadel of his throat 

tries to revive words / emotions, like the miracle

of Lazarus called forth from his grave. I know better

than to question god on the day he decides to 

replenish man with life & the day he chooses

to let him fall like the wrinkled breasts of an ancestor.

we wake up each morning & say a prayer for 

life, never knowing when it’s death’s turn

to spell an amen on your tongue. 

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Boloere Seibidor is an African poet and writer. She has works in numerous magazines/journals, which include IceFloe, Crepe and Penn, Neologism, amongst others. She won the Glassdoor Poetically Written Prose Contest 2020; and honourable mention in the 2019 Kreative Diadem Flash Fiction Contest. She tweets @boloere_sod.

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