The Procession of the Queen
The queen drew up the restrictions dismantling
the inefficient parliament weaving the stiff
silk bars of voluntary prisons locked to protect
the empire’s most valued possession
As the citadel blocking Carthaginian invasion
resides to the left within her thorax she
grooms her spinners to erect monuments of peace
governing civil wars and builds strategic lakes
Adjacent to her bottom lashes during flash flood
seasons that expand beyond her borders
she surveys the tactics of neighboring nations
on vibrations of warnings and evacuation plans
Asserting she will drown at the Iberian peninsula
fearing an attack at Sanguntum
infiltrating the cracks of her dorsal
paralyzing her palps
The prize of this realm bolted in a vault buried
unmarked in the blueprints forcing raiders
to ransack in their search and trip over sand bags
of promises before they retreat radiated
And the queen hammers and dismantles nailed planks
opens the shutters and descends from the hills
crossing the Rhone on claws over the amassment of
crushed obelisks, kaolin, cenotaphs and carcass shells
Often amidst the winds and floods of gulf
hurricanes and gun fire of warring factions
within her domain as if merely a drizzle with each
trial she raises her flag
Beyond the bobbing debris on the graveled road
she travels outside the fortification of civil society
the ground beneath her shifts with her consciousness
like tectonic plates adjusting her land of Zama
To her purge and growth like a switch
that charges a massive magnetic instrument tickling
the cribellum her frequency levels register at higher magnitudes than ever before
She knows it when she casts an acknowledging
glance at an inspired wanderer an exiled combatant
a sad smile tossed to disapproving loved ones
a lifted chin at a speculum despite announcements
Through the country of a defeat in battle avowing
recovery on her throne that proceeds with her
to sit in, any time she desires comfort, any time
respite is required in the peace of her own state
I Remember How You Got Here
In the chemical lab where
the buzz is so constant no one
hears it anymore
the lights and computers and
all eyes and mind open again
focused, but different now.
When I call you and then hang up
you’ll know it’s me
wanting you to call me back
while I log in samples for companies
whose batches are bad
and product failure has caused
a halt in production.
Calling me, you’re out
of breath having just gotten off
a stationary bike.
Your voice is matter-of-fact
and you tell me about a
woman who emailed you about
starting up a “thing” with her.
Listening is watching gangrene gas
crawl its infections
through my lungs
I breathe and feel and listen.
Compiling a list for a legal team
fighting against counterfeit product
I sit with you wanting to cry on
your chest because of the scratchy
flat slope in your voice
and infection envelops me.
I know everything then.
Though I can see how you got here.
I remember the broken plastic
parts I threw at you when
I came back from Chiang Mai.
I distinctly recall the sandy slopes in my responses.
The armor and barbed wire.
The awareness is shocking and
makes me ill.
People die of shock every day.
I am aware. There is a resolve
in this tacky ache. While
I go, consumed by the gas and
chemicals I request you watch
me go. I request your dead eyes
watch mine die again, so you
can know for sure you
killed me twice.
There is no melody in the song no
syncopation I spurn a soft tune to soothe
subsistence of stress made, a spawn of
a song’s broth, a synthesis, sloppy
and loose on the spoon’s mouth
The clearest thinking is done in the
shower in the puff of thick steam
and the spur of soapy slippery
songs in your head filth ascends
picking a path a sanguine song allows
The salt of shifting thought and abrasion
of the rinse sheds and sloughs
off the skin in the shallows
discarded suds in the song left
behind in the trail of muddiness
Crisp air whisks into the condensed
moisture springing ideas cracking doors open
copious segments of imagination
of relief spaded from nail beds of soapy
solutions and crawl under shower clouds
Kobina Wright attempted her most ambitious and evolving work by creating the Hodaoa-Anibo language and wrote the first Hodaoa-Anibo dictionary. Currently, she has a blog called "The Wrighter."