Animalcules
What first greets anyone who enters this room
is not the medication, not my drooping eyes,
not my worn face like Schrödinger’s cat,
tarrying undecided between recovery and relapse,
but the old bible left on the stool, just beside my bed
where my father’s hand can swiftly reach it.
At midnight, he flips it open and
for a long while, stares at the vignette of the Last Supper
on the first page, as if to crawl inside it
and save Jesus from imminent death
then I hear him recite his favorite bible verse
into his palms, supple with anointing oil
his mouth, dense with the book of Isaiah:
Ma ndi n’ele anya Onyenweanyi…ga-agbanwe ike ha
Ha ga-agba ósó, ike agaghi agwukwa ha
Ha ga-eje ije, ghara ida mba.
For those who wait upon the Lord…shall mount
up on wings like the eagle. They shall
run and not be weary, they shall
walk and not faint.
Afterwards, he keeps vigil, his breaths
steady and drawn against the long moan
of the night like a snake’s hiss, his head
is bowed in a catnap, the way St Francis
must have appeared on the night
of his first missionary trip, bent with exhaustion.
I fall into a trance and there is an army of bacteria
invading my body’s defenses
dressed in deceitful clothing.
They populate the islets of Langerhans
slice through the sphincter of Oddi
infiltrate the Bowman’s capsule
graze on the walls of the Cowper’s gland
and curl round the loop of Henle
while I’m left muttering every one of god’s name
I ever committed to memory
Rapha. Jaireh. Sabaoth
which is my most preferred name for god
Sabaoth: a platoon of insurgents
charioting into my body
but it’s hard to think about horses when
my father’s voice stubbornly tickles my ears
and his prayers keep falling like many
little animals on my infected chest
as I pretend to fall asleep.