The Birth of Venus From a Hotel Room + Red-Winged Blackbird

Photo Courtesy of Clark Young via Unsplash

The Birth of Venus From a Hotel Room

A room, the cold of night, a cup of wine. A chair, he sits, a pair of eyes, the stare. A gulp into lips, a hand of gold, the touch. A neck, the crane of it, the hair of golden. The sea of love, of drowning, of glowing, of sun. The time, he stops, a god, he laughs, a dream, he scoffs, of beauty he nears, the bed of white. The sleep, he falls, by noon, he is up like the tide. The earth, the warmth, the soul of belle and grace, a myth of Zeus, the paint and hue of Gogh, the tune of Nicks. The wail, the cry, the shock, the quake of finding: A grail, a praise, a saint, a priest of sin. I find this is the birth of Venus. 

Red-Winged Blackbird 

Green and brown on his body

Drag his weight down

He looks up to find

A red-winged blackbird

Shrugs, and moves on

Eyes hazel, hands rough

Pink lips that have tasted

Crimson blood

His face wilting, holding

A gun so tenderly 

Wishing it was his six month old 

He comes home to a warm wife

He holds an innocent newborn 

Soft skin and little fingers 

Grasping For his

He wears blue linen as he cooks and cleans

And ties a tie adeptly with honour 

He proudly brings his daughter to school

He smokes, teary-eyed

Before walking his daughter down the aisle 

His teeth crooked and on display

Blue veins branching across his face 

This time he is nervously shaking

And pacing in a hospital room, this time

He is here, as she is born with 

The same hazel eyes 

His belt loop expands, as his chest does when breathing

His beard now white

Time marks and scars his face

A puzzle piece of stories 

He does not dare to speak of

He swings his granddaughter through the air

His back groaning like a wounded soldier laying in the mud

The sky looms over him

Devouring his white and wrinkly skin

Dragging him up, up, up

He is tired of fighting

The gods claim him as their own

Now he finds that he has become

A red-winged blackbird 

Perched on a tree

Whistling gleefully

Singing his tunes

About the Author

By Rojina Ammeh


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