Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah
Best into the Void

Nothing is beyond recovery.
See how a large army of ants,
crossing by a rafter through pale days
and white nights along the edges of armistice.
This act leaves a very deep dig below the mind.
I am learning to dream again.
I am learning to sleep silently.
These small months are shaped
according to their indifferent voices,
drifting in a considerate bliss.
The new settlers pay the arrears.
For the watershed and dams
that are boundaries than this ephemeral,
that are altars, or the channels
temporarily at East Bug,
where lands are assorted in astute,
or stitched up for sale,
the daddies stop resisting
and refusing the need
for having parley.
The pique remains as piquant.
As long as the bumblers
emerge mostly in white robes,
the contest of will or conjunction
is brought to a loosely bounded siting.
I end my share of this light.
My distance is shortened by ten months.
I am your content on this space, shuttled.
I am artichoke, hiding behind the afterglow.

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