To hunger is human; to touch, divine. To this very end, I have become the preacher man on the hills of your soul. I have become the throb in runnels of your depth; tremor in chambers of your night. For hunger is mortal, and touch is not—and warmth—and market conversations around arcs in lethargies of motion.
To hunger is human; to touch, divine; to grasp; to knead; to glaze eternities on shimmering flesh, damp and dulcet songs, a long ravenous barter sealed in breathless mists of a flooded barn wheezing through corn tassels. The hour is airless, and faint tingles ride the void to holy explosions.
To hunger is human, to touch; divine – divine tickle of the inviolate kernel to sprout thunders. To touch is to bridge the miles they must course. It is a slow colliding ritual that must creep into the dead of the night. There is neither absolution of the spirit nor baptism of the pulse. The invocations burn; and time dances through walls of errant shadows and slime; escapes impassioned fires, and rock-thick fissures in the charge of touch.
To touch is to mollify thunders – a relief in clarity of space. For how do I describe a bare, honest spire of writhing skin? A land of stories, unwritten, unread, without tear or smudge? What shall I brand its hunger that its grief may be fully termed? A shock wave? A trickle when the rains are gone and epiphanies shatter in its heavens? As thunders? No, not thunders, not even thunders after febrile months of lone can forge miracles in the soul like a bidden, fleeting touch.
Oyin Oludipe is a Nigerian poet, editor and playwright whose works have appeared in several art journals and literary magazines like Tuck Magazine, The Luxembourg Review, The Literary Vox, Arts and Africa journal and some others. He tweets @Sir_Muell