Emperor dreaming of clouds
I: Rewinding
The lavender moon to the year of the Wood Tiger;
behind the silvered back of
Salyut 4 (no man’s land);
Zaire ’74 — a rumble in the jungle.
Your small hands ten-printed
in mud, your laugh an
echo in space-time.
II: Presently
Returning to his mother’s dying embrace, with iron hearts unbecoming.
III: Reminiscing
And sitting by the riverbank —
to the sound of water creaking, to
not miss the fish swimming by, to
the feel of wind pressing down
cheeks and arms.
Strolling over tall, yellowed tufts of grass,
and shielding Sol’s awe from our eyes,
inhaling hot, humid air.
Spot a deer by the shadow of
that blackened neem tree,
with which its leaves
carelessly sway.
There, to the catching call
of a water thick-tree,
here, to a hungry bat
restlessly flitting and gliding
under an azure dusk.
IV: Revering
Of stick-figured sketches and long ridged
peaks traced over wet sand.
Having red-shifted conversations
on several somethings or
maybe nothing.
The hour hand morrows even as
we sit very, verily still.
Lisa Sammoh is an African diaspora poet currently writing from Vancouver, Canada. Her works appear in The Kalahari Review, The Shallow Tales Review, Olúmọ Review (selected for the 2024 Best of the Net Nomination), and elsewhere. They touch on the intersectional nuances from back home.