For Dadiyata
I will pronounce your name,
Dadiyata.
truth-spoken son
firm-tongued flame
laughter-bearing man
who made fear loosen its grip
who made the dark blink first
taken in the hour
when even shadows crouch
night ate him
slow-chewed silence
morning came pale-faced
with no witness in its mouth
dawn rose thinner
as though the sky itself
had misplaced a name
his gate swings still
crooked bone of welcome
hinge-cry
wind-worn psalm
leaning outward
for the footfall that completes it
for the hand that knew
how home should sound
they came clothed in blackout
authority thick on the fist
secrecy sealed on the lip
men of iron-knuckled purpose
who borrowed the grammar of law to
conjugate disappearance
they left no trail
not a tire-prayer
not a dust-confession
only the aftersound
only the sleepless echo
only the house learning
how absence fattens a room
Dadiyata
name like coal under ash
name like hidden rain
children carry it mouth to mouth
small drums of memory
market women hum it
between pepper and grief
evening prayers fold around it
softly softly
as if softness can outlast terror
mothers know this country of waiting
cup untouched
mat awake
eyes fastened to the gate
breath measuring rumor
rumor upon rumor
thin bridges of maybe
crossing the flood of not knowing
one man taken
and many hearts conscripted
one body vanished
and the village wears the wound
like cloth that will not wash clean
one silence imposed
and a thousand throats
learn the labor of calling
we have not forgotten
not now
not when justice limps
not when power grows bored
not when paper graves stack high
not when officials speak in locked rooms
and call forgetting peace
we call your name into morning
again and again
until sunlight must answer
we lift your story sunward
like calabash water
like incense from broken hands
like smoke from kitchens
where the missing still eat in memory
for soil remembers
heel-mark by heel-mark
for walls remember laughter
corner by corner
for silence is not empty
it is crowded with withheld things
crowded with footsteps interrupted
with doors half-open
with questions that do not rot
even absence has weight
stone-heavy
throat-heavy
nation-heavy
even silence sings
when grief presses hard enough
even the wind can become witness
if enough people refuse to bow
Dadiyata
your spirit walks
through market dust
through prayer-hush
through the long corridor of mothers
who know loss by its first name
who know waiting as a second skin
who know hope can bleed
and still not die
so we raise the song
throat by throat
yard by yard
until the crooked gate
is no longer left to mourn alone
until the night confesses
until the hidden are unhidden
until home is more than longing
until return is not a rumor
we are still calling
earth calling sky
sky calling wind
wind calling dust
dust calling bone
bone calling name
Dadiyata
Dadiyata
Dadiyata
!
Photo Ilya Mondryk