The Skillet’s derriere partakes in the fire’s hysteria.
Upon the third attempt, I got my fingers scalded by the sizzling flesh.
Hidrosis is my mother’s secret ingredient, how those tiny trickles find their way through the boiling soup into my pharynx.
I know a certain kind of mirth. Amidst the world’s briary, I yodel with laughter. Above my father’s dark crevices, a sheen of light. or hope. a festival of guffaws, mouths of orifices punctured by the fermented sap.
The red-hued balloons marauding the foggy ambience mottled by the season’s touch.
Perhaps joy is transient & it’s the permissible reason we lived once and enough—transform the teeth’s halation into ephemeral glories. We laugh anyways, forget the world’s maladies within the minutes, recite litanies about the virgin birth and wish each other a merry Christmas.
Kei Vough, Nigerian, Musicologist, is a handsome 20 years old poet. He stan Ocean Vuong.
Featured image: Mark Rabe, Unsplash
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