by Eniola Abdulroqeeb Arówólò

i don’t have to tell you how body has become burden,

               meaning there’s already so much decay you saw when

                       you burrowed into my pores for light or a mere spark.


it’s another Saturday noon, the carpenter across my

                    dorm is doing some woodwork. his daughter

                               reads him a ballad. and i am somewhere


inside Plath or Sexton, eating elegies like party desserts.

                     there is something telling me to stop fanning

                                  the flame of grief unless it grows into a fire


and swallows me like a muezzin’s voice drowning the

                       mosque. i struggle with red sea in my eyes

                              most nights but darkness shields it


the same way a chameleon hides itself in the skin of

                      green leaves to escape the savagery of

                             its predators. and my father often thinks it’s


the tap leaking again because his son is mostly silent in his sadness.

                        these days, i hunt for bliss in every disaster

                               thinking ruin too can be joyful if i glory this body enough patience.


Image: Eugene Golovesov via Pexels