there are nights you sit outside /alone/ on the grass at the beach / you do not go close to
the sand
or the water / because you want your presence to remain a secret / between you & yourself.
you fear the sea might snatch your lipstick / & spit it back in daylight / or the sand might keep prints of your feet / & testify against you /
so you stay where the grass will not tell on you /
with your hair loose, blush resting over bruises, your red lipstick still pretending not to see that your upper lip is swollen /
the mascara saved the tears in your lashes /
your toenails are broken (a little paint could lie for you)
only one earring dangles
(The other got lost somewhere
between a punch & a run.)
you look beautiful / in the way broken things do / better than the third year of your marriage to Akwasi /
you sit quietly on this grass / no mat / no book / no mp3 player / not even a hum.
just you.
your eyes rummage in the sky / expecting to see a crescent in December /
& you don’t know why /
you begin thinking / not the kind that makes great philosophers
or scientists /
not about your mother-in-law / calling you a witch / whore / an outsider /
sometimes / daring to fight you / because you didn’t name your first daughter after her /
not about the mornings your husband’s rage pounds your face /
before breakfast /
or waking before sunrise / to rebuild your face / inject a smile / replant missing teeth /
before the day searches your body for the truth /
not about the lies you shape to carry you through workdays /
with a bandaged head & a dislocated shoulder / because dinner tasted a bit saltier.
sometimes you stay late at the office / hoping / sadness would tire / & leave your body.
you do not even think about Sundays / how you sit unmindful in hot prayers / wondering if God required new words/
what else to say? when he has already seen / the damage chiselled / into your body /
the rivers your tears could fill / & how your voice screeches
before it reaches, amen.
you’ve stopped calling your mother to complain / she keeps weighing your pain against the nights she inherited from your grandmother
so you sit here instead /
mistaking satellites for stars / & counting them /
then you ponder on the silliest things/
what happens when the thunder breaks the sky? does heaven spill on earth?
what is the colour of a broken sky? does it stay blue? does it wear bruises / like my face?
you wish you had answers / you smile anyway.
& then imagine this—
if only / God had made you a bird / you would fly /
until the sea becomes only a thin necklace around the earth / the baobabs borrow the size of grass beneath your feet /
& Akwasi’s voice / falls into a vacuum
you would twirl & twist / then scratch through the blue skin of the sky / till the sun recognises your face /
flap your wings / riding
in the centre of the clouds / as if gathering a storm
& maybe / just maybe /
strike like thunder / at those who called this love.
Photo: Katelyn G