KHALILAH OKEKE - POEMS

Khalilah Okeke was raised in the Pacific Northwest and now resides in Sydney, Australia, with her husband and two children. Her work has been published in The Plum Tree Tavern, Down in the Dirt magazine, The Red Eft Review, The Orissa Society of the Americas Journal, and 50 - Word Stories.

---

The Libertines of Drury Lane
​

I cannot see their faces
 
                                they are obscured -
                                                  in a suffocating mist.
                                    I am searching--
through sketched shadows   a forest emerging from a blinding fog.
 
                                         There is liquid here --
                                                        IT FILLS THE ROOM
toppling tipple—pouring through the snow-frosted glass
into the veins of my day.
The bodies are moving          I sense them   leaning in       There are rakes among them  Shoulders shoving forward
They’re stretching over sands; sweeping over oceans
to betray me.
With their scum-skimmed boots
black capes triumphing like Grand umbels —flags flittering in wind
Lifted skirts baring naked stems.
I see inside their pockets
                                                  theft trapped trinkets exposed
Wretched eyes filled with filthy conquests.
A polished watch                   pearls snatched from the sea—       
They do not shift out of the way.
 
                                     There is fire here--
I feel the flaming furnace thundering below
Bolts of lightning spearing into my wet weeping eyes
Grinding down
upon me like
anxious
teeth.
With the spread of their wing-tipped cloaks
they unmask talons beneath their white gloves
Hair roped down
to the waist like
a noose.
They watch me when I’m sleeping   
                                                       consuming me               
                                                                  Breath has left me--
I choose the stage— Even though it is pounded with fruit
And they will forget me.
                                  I will allow them to toss me skyward
                                                  passing me along their grime-flavored hands
 
 
                                                              Viewing my soul
                                                                                                by 
                                                                                                      chandelier-
                                                                                                                                light.

Magic
​

My heart
the melted waters of the Kahtnu,
carving through the mountains
that bar me in.
My husband
traveled by boat to come and catch it
                          A flowing glow of cerulean-blue in
the never-ending night.
                           He thought it might be magic
                                     My heart
                               a slippery fish in his hand.
 
My eyes
are salt lakes in the middle of an
Australian desert.
My husband
journeyed by camel to come collect them
                               Crimson pools of stillness —the
color of cherry blossoms blooming
                              —then white again.
                             He thought it might be magic
                                     My eyes
                             dusky ponds of sunset in his
                             hands.
 
My face
The Moon’s reflection on a Caribbean
Sea. The water filled with spice and
heat—an ocean brimming in music.
                              He swam out to hold me
                                      My portrait
                              evanescent on the rippling of waves
                              —a drifting dream—rain slipping
                             through fingers
 
                                          He knew it was magic.

​Life is Covered in Blankets  

​The bruise of the night sky riding the earth,
The comforting swaddle for a freshly born
son.
 
The coarse shroud of the mortician’s sheet,
Glimmer of hope
                                         in the shadow of sorrow.
 
Drawn lids—Closing eyes
The richness of snow on mountainous ranges,
Waterfall of hair —forest bejeweled in leaves.
 
The shield of your strength protecting from pain,
Seas sweeping sands
                                          the music of rain.

Ink
​

    When she cries the whole world
cries with her.
    The moon mourns,
 shrouding its body in a veil of clouds
    Filling her ink-pot with the muddled
pulp of hearts
     A methodical pen casting shadows
on prayers.
           
      Her pages spill in rivers.
                    Vowels collecting on shores
like castaway shells
       Ballads lost in a windswept
gesture
        Drifting like the blown wish of a
dandelion moon.
           
        Books gather their apothegms
like the jumbled bones
                  of a King’s
abandoned battlefield.
           Leaving confusion in their mounds
and piles of banishment.
          She has brought death to her desk
with the urgent sweep of her carriage
         Her bin,
                       the guillotines black bag.
 
                              We hear the echo of timber
                        falling!
                               We smell the bonfires
                         burning!
           
            I crumble on my tired mat
in the company of widows.
            We grieve poems like husbands
and watch them purl-away
                       On a river
                                     the color        
                                                 of
                                                communion
                                                            wine.