Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah


I think my body is a tarpaulin to cover our fears and prejudices
we have built over a night in the cellar. But this body remains
in the swamp, the land that reaffirms who we are.
It is ready, after many years of tribal wars, after its
new craftsmanship, for the market. You have
determined its growing dissatisfaction as the highest
bid and this is good to attract both old and new
buyers. Houseflies are reduced from this review,
the waste goes away with no loss. Because I have
found a room of my own when my edges
are tailored with Singer sewing machines
and everything is entirely new. The right buyers
note in a very careful scrutiny that the first
sighting is a principal feature and this body
is the conception that transmits its whole
gamut that is subjected to its brightest
spirits among expedients of the partnership,
I wonder if the part I face is the memory
I erase with your blood or my imagination.
So far, no evidence to suggest that these
forebodings are justified. I can ever work
out my restoration, I narrow the circle
I draw to enclose your sympathies and duties,
your position is really one of the master’s
weaknesses I foster, I cannot give you
the pain in character and purpose I may
know or not know, I go along, throwing
bubbles back, you have a boyish passion
for it. This fever of the body in the open
is distributed among the water bubbles,
its sky I paint is heavy with sudden raindrops,
vibrating in my head. I hide behind an image
of an absent friend. I lose my content as a male,
my voices are given to a stone nearby. The vault
in my heart is filled with a little piqued, a very
disapproving silence. It is too long I hear from
the houseflies, I drive up there just before lunch.
Because I want to find something in the indestructible
bodies, especially in credo, in the first years
of your widowhood in Florida, in the same room,
I listen to you with attention that has none
your doubts. I complete the snugness
we have borrowed from a divorce case.
We get ourselves the better questions,
you add the bushel to my acquiescence.

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