The Man They’ve Shot Dead

Whose tears are you nesting in the honey socket?
I’ve eaten my breakfast in silence.
I’m still looking outside the window to see the man in red bandanna,
who’s still riding on his red BMW bicycle with your elder sister
& I wish I could say hello to him.
No. They’re carrying his bier on four shoulders.
Nobody screams. Nobody wails. Everything is silent
& the world too is silent. I fill sockets with tears that belong to you.
Now that I’ve gotten myself on a wooden platform to stand very tall, let my failing eyes
follow him through the crowded street in the woods. I’ve faith
in my failing eyes. I’ve faith to see
when I can see human skeletons hanging on branches of trees
& nobody wants to look at. I thank you that I’ve nothing doing this hour except that I’m just
looking
& I can stand here alone still looking at you. But the distance looks a bit iffy
this morning. & the man who wears a blonde wig is going away to join
those who’ve shot you in their strange masks
& someone replaces him to join the woman
who’s coming out to meet you.
I can still see the white egrets somewhere;
& all the windmills are all there;
& all the hanging poles are all there. We close
the gap between us. I can see the old expression of your smile, however,
is by no means unpleasing to those who’ve just shot you dead,
as may be supposed but it’s no variation whatsoever.
That’s why everything starts under these acacia trees.
& under the acacia trees something is happening
& the land guards are growing in size in their skeletons still dangling under trees & nobody
wants to see. I’m alone watching or looking.
Because you always say that you’ll never die.
& I hope you’ve sacrificed for the good things that are yet to come in the future. Now who’s
the one riding on a bicycle? He resembles you
when he smiles with a minimum of entropy,
& there’s no such sterile or toxic waste or non-decomposing litter in his productivity.
I’m alone here looking at the bioregion
& I’m sometimes confronted by people who’re not believers.

The Goings across the Other Ways

They’re not happy for you to be present here.
& now that you step beyond the hedgerow
& commerce building another detached house
with its amenities include a pool & two bars,

everything from here seems amiss as the beginning.
The man with two mental powers & a certain degree
of physical strength has travelled a long distance
to see with no more reliable witnesses than his eyes.

He’s forgotten even to greet & address himself
in case of sudden accident that may prove his presence.
My conviction is that I’ve not a moment to lose, as he’s
evidently sinking fast by your urgent entreaties.

The bone dry smiles are the next bonus. But you know
to yourself that, you’re receiving booby prize
& you don’t want to throw anything of boomerang.
You enter the room. It’s occupied in penciled memoranda.

Your wife is good & supportive. She dresses herself well,
her shoulder length wavy hair & the face, to finish
the furnishings. She’s a complete madam in the mornings
to keep the visitors away when the space is an office now.

Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah, who is an algebraist and artist, works in mixed media. His poetry, songs, prose, art and hybrid have appeared in numerous journals. He lives in the southern part of Ghana, in Spain, and the Turtle Mountains, North Dakota.