Dust rose
and fell back
along the path—
a slow red tide
forgetting
how to hurry.

Obi and Joel walked inside it,
bare feet printing
cooling earth,
the day’s last heat
still rising
through their soles.

Sky loosened its grip.
Sun slipped
behind the mango ridge,
without ceremony—
leaving a scar of dawn

that bled outward
until
the whole dome
darkened.

Moon came up
plain-faced,
low over zinc roofs,
spilling silver
across the yard
where chickens
had gone
quiet.

Gate pushed open.

Joel with the paper bag
of tamarind sweets—
folded tight
so ants
would not find it.

Obi’s shirt clung,
salt-stiff,
to his back.

Inside: a bulb flickered,
steadied—
tired gold.

Fan turned:
lazy blades
slicing the same
thick air—
moving nothing.

Mat.
Two boys.
Shoulders touching.
Breath braided in the room.

Down the corridor
she moved—
cotton nightgown
brushing calves,
bare feet
soft on concrete.

A silhouette
cut out of the dark,
watching them
settle.

Crickets tried—
quit.
Dogs surrendered.

A click.

Black poured in.
Roof creaked
under the stars.

Her voice:
“When I come back tomorrow night,
this same quiet
will still be mine
to give you.”

Then nothing.

Two boys,
sway of the unplugged fan,
and the night
folding itself—
sheet to the chin—
over a house
that finally
let the day die.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Akshar Dave🌻 on Unsplash