​The absence of joy is the color of red earth in Enugu,
not the deep, pulsing terracotta that signifies life,
but the dry, faded film of it,
the dust that goes up into the air
and stops the oxygen from reaching your nose.

It is the rush inward, the grabbing of your heart,
sending a sharp jolt through it:
the sudden, silvered wire tightening around your ribs,
daring you to take a breath.

This absence keeps your hands by your side.
It is the inability to raise a hand and wipe the film away,
the pulling back of your wrists as you want to stroke your daughter’s hair.

The absence of joy is a delayed echo.
The happy sounds of music now reach you
as you’ve turned your back to the sun,
the images of love and companionship now skipping past your eyes,
as you’ve bolted the door and sunk to the floor.

The absence of joy is the shoe beside your door,
unmoving since 2017, a grave for a journey.
It is the decaying pizza to your left,
its remains now maggots.
They are your companions in the belief that all things should simply rot.

This absence is sleep, the sinking into the bed kind,
moving everything but the parts that can move.
It is the calling out for your mother,
and her dancing, eating, bending,
oblivious to your suffocation.

The absence of joy is the ugliness
carved into the wall,
signed in your name.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Shannon Amori on Unsplash