is lying awake at 1:00am as it does every morning
cradling a memory; this time, of a rainy day
sometime in December when your laughter awoke the sky.
Or was it the smell of Dare’s perfume
that time he tasted your skin?
Or was it the awful honesty that pierced the room
when Adele sang Rolling in the Deep?
Once upon that day
you had been a child again
your body, it remembers.
It was the last time it felt something.
is sitting half-perched
on the office chair in the library,
your phones are idly by your side,
they have forgotten how to ring.
Careless papers, empty biros
are making rounds on your clueless table;
and your fingers, on their own
expel their rage on your laptop screen–
Punctuation marks are for the idle minds
and typos are a part of life.
Your body, it now knows
there is no promise in tomorrow
so even when the right words fail,
the wrong ones must suffice
people just want to see you try.
with the tears streaming from your eye.
Some days are good, other days are better
but some days are made just for you to cry.
So, your body, it convulses
from the weight of memories within,
haunted by the halo
of hands held and lips kissed,
overwhelmed by the might of stories
untold; about chances you never took,
Yet, your body!
It picks itself up from the floor of your bathroom because
nights are for coconut shampoo showers and
mourning the things you almost had.
This is a piece inspired by Morayo’s poem “Your Body”, in the book Like a Mule bringing Ice cream to the Sun by Sarah Ladipo Mayinka.
Thank you Sheedart for sharing the wonderful book with me. I heart you, big time.
© The Short Black Girl, 2017.