I do not ask for a life
free from pain, if there is such a life;
i do not ask that every wish
of mine be granted whenever, wherever;
i do not ask to only win whenever i fight;
i do not ask for doors that only open
whenever i knock them;
i do not ask that thorns prick me not
whenever roses i pick;
i do not even ask that i only know
of the joys of abundance &
not the despairs of lack all of my days.
lord, i only ask of you to grant me
the fortitude to bear what i have to bear
without crumbling under its weight,
i only ask should my fate be as the fate
of sisyphus, to eternally roll up a hill
the boulder, grant me the strength to.
***
eternity of cold chaos
the sixth seal breaks the sun blackens to a soggy soot
the moon mellows to a parched potato the sky shrinks
into an all-mouth star with gnarled shadows for false teeth
a silver staircase ricochets off a horus chest resting its thin
chin on anubis’s splintered shins an obsidian-blue owl hooting
emerald elegies shoots across the sky hacking a white horse
towards a mangled mirage of an eye-capped babel pigmented
meekly against the fragment of its dulled imagination
a lust-drunk jesus basking in the afterglow of his legends
gently glides his silk-smooth tongue across mary’s thumb-thick
clitoris in the lush light of easter noon the angels shock-stunned
hide their eyes behind their pearl-rimmed wings in mecca
a joy-washed buddha moonwalks out of the closet to the violent
applause of lenient pilgrims the third trumpet blares the mountains
squash to sand-size grains the hills hatch into salt-lumps
the earth lumps into a purple-crusted cake of ice blood-tattooed
with the fluttering silhouettes of warped-limbed gods baphomet’s
sun-bright flame off-flickers its strangled ghost a faint fade
freckle-etched on the dark barks of myths a crow-headed apophis
its wings wind-clipped belly-crawls hades-ward through smoke-licked
clouds its lead-heavy throat cracking with dust-dry crackles
in his winter-dead eyes a frayed black & white portrait of a masked
man leeching blood from the slit neck of a mutilated ten-years-old girl
in a macabre-art-adorned room is impressed the portrait blurs
before crumpling into a grainy montage of an amputated boy asking
his sobbing mother if severed legs can regrow atum heart sizzling
with the loud hunger of holy anger let a wind-shattering wail &
a falcon-winged whirlwind swirls in an eye-blink the world into nun’s
throat where it thaws into a sunless eternity of cold chaos which upon
osiris & atum eternally roam holding hands like teenage lovers
***
to that farmer cursing god because your prayers for rain went unanswered
imagine yourself god:
a fiery-eyed wool-haired patriarch
garbed in a gold-sashed light
sitting on a sapphire-washed throne
eyes stretched taut over this universe
stretching beyond the grasp of mortal
imagination seven scarlet stars blaring songs
in your hands a double-edged sword
dangling low out of your lavendered mouth
like a scrotum on a warm summer day
imagine about your throne
a full moon of white-robed gold-crowned
elders on their little thrones golden
bowls humming bright incense before
their feet & four-faced four-winged
angels, skins sparkling like burnished bronze
bodies struck stiff in a rigid rhythm like
heartbeats eyes stuck ice-white voices
thunder-fierce as they croon:
holy, holy, holy, holy, holy, holy…
imagine jesus your personal assistant
now burnt out after hours
running on cheap caffeine & imposed
discipline hunched over a laptop sifting
through millions of emails of supplications
each uniquely earnest happens upon yours
& as he is about to grant you your wish
a notification pops up on the status bar: the hawker
across your street prays for a clear weather!
***
instructions on surviving a loss
when everything under the sun conspires
& imagine you a job & rob you of everything
you hold dear: your children; your wealth; your health;
your peace of mind, succumb not, succumb not
to the alluring pull to tear your clothes, to shave your head,
to sit in the ashes, to slouch into silence, to curse
the day you were born, to curse god. instead, gather yourself
into a quiet & breathe slow, deep breaths. steady your eyes
on the stars until their cold lights sit stagnant in them
& speak your heart clean to them. drag yourself into the shower
for a long, warm bath. snuggle yourself to bed & cry to sleep.
when the long night draws to a close & spits you to the shores
of an owl-eyed day & your heart is still ruby-red with sores,
gather yourself out of bed to the open fields & walk barefooted
through the meadows until the wet noses of dewed grasses rub
smooth your aching ankles, until the perfumed songs of nature cruise
soft into your ailing ears. bathe whole in the wild wind until its timid
caresses heal your heart of its bruises. feast full on the scents of flowers.
soak yourself in the young sun until the juice of its light seep
into the cracks hollowed against the skin of your soul. do everything
you can to survive, to live through another day. do everything.
often, the only way, the only way to overcome a loss is to outgrow it.
***
a google search on why trees shed leaves during dry season hints at survival mechanism.
it says, & i quote: “...by dropping leaves, trees reduce water loss
through transpiration & prevent dehydration,” which is to say
dry seasons, mean as they are, are kind enough to strip trees
of their beauty, of their dignity to save them from a possible
death. hypothetically, they say: “what is beauty, what is dignity
compared to life? what is shame compared to death?” perhaps
the trees do not know of this. perhaps, like us, when we suffer loss,
they wail. perhaps they withdraw. perhaps they vent. perhaps they revile.
what if our losses are as such, means the universe is protecting us with
from the worst possible & like the trees, we hurt because we are oblivious?
BIO: MK Kuol is a self-taught poet from South Sudan whose work has appeared on The Selkie Publications, ANMLY, Beach Chair Press, Konya Shamsrumi, Kalahari Review, D'lit Review, and elsewhere. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.
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