Itches are like flies, carrying pestilence
From ranch to branch, restlessly destructive.
Where do they come from? Nobody nose!
The ice of their land went dark when sunlight
Left them nomads on the human body.
My fingers have a fancy for them, my hands
Dart to dance to their fickle rhythm.
Van Gogh possesses the evil paint, and my fingers
Like dry brush upon easel, screech out The Scream:
Nobody ears it, nobody ceases. In that moment
Death plots with the 19th crown to walk into me.
My lungs want to heave
But my face takes its leave.
(c) nyonglema
waghni 