Fossil Egg
BY ROBERT OKAJI.
The secrets that contain you.
Like what fills
the center of the fossil egg,
a never-developed
word or the crimson bud wormed black.
Repetition lends force to lies but can't create truth.
The halogen bulb remains dark without electricity
even in the light of day.
But how to enter that space?
The yolk hardened to stone.
A man's forgotten name.
The unmentioned flower.
Every day looming in possibility.
Cyclops
BY ROBERT OKAJI.
Boundless loss, hemmed at the edges.
Another mended hole, wasted mornings.
Unwound, I towel off, extract loose hair.
Look for messages in the clouds, see
only deceit. I am sick with
joy. I no longer sing. My goats
shun me. Where is the love,
the missing fact. An albino
squirrel skitters up the oak.
I think of blood, of bone fragments.
The pleasures of rendering.
Robert Okaji is a displaced Texan living in Indiana. The author of five chapbooks, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Panoply, Crannóg, Dormiveglia, Slippery Elm and elsewhere. You can keep up with him on Twitter @robertokaji.