Exhaling slowly, the expecting clouds
are just above the brim, we brighten up
though the trip has totally exhausted us,
we’ve stopped at the brothel, abandoned,
an abbess has taken over, composing it
into a convent, the building next to you,
is the mud. The shadows under the mud
grow larger, making a promise on their death,
a few are dreaming aloud with the skin-colour
instead of the eyes, we hunker to see the air
leaving a huge hunky-dory low field after
the hybridization, we remain calm in this
shelter to hustle into the husk of new seeds.
We’re the rooms, blossoming. A hyacinth
in its sweet-smelling bell-shaped flowers
fills the hurtful walls among us, we begin
to feel weightlessness and a husband among us
carries the hurricane lamp from face to face,
mapping the next move before the morning.
I return the hush money to the landlady.
After breakfast, Agnes sits beside me,
asking for my name and pointing to the wine.
Jacob Kobina Ayiah Mensah is the author of the new hybrid work, Z. His individual poems are widely published and recently appearing in The Meadow, Juked, North Dakota Quarterly, etc. He is algebraist and artist and lives in the southern part of Ghana, Spain, and Turtle Mountains, North Dakota.