Tiny Spaces  

 

We created worlds in tiny spaces—   

Designing in poetry more often than prose.   

I let him into my home, and together we worked 

around shards of glass and misplaced wood.   

Afternoon tiptoed its way in, and we found ourselves in knots untangled,  

bound by the tangents and story times of his childhood.   

We waited for after noon,   

For the shadows to lengthen,   

To find ourselves wrapped under bed sheets—   

Where his scent lingered for days.   

 

I hope 

 

One day, I might lose control.  

In my room, a small black child plays house with two blonde Barbies, 

She follows me everywhere, her and her mess 

She peers into me - “where is your love?”  

No flowers to grace me, no ring to bind me, no lover in sight. 

The urge to scream 'Get out' bubbles within, 

But it's not her I want to silence. 

 

I hope I don’t become violent.  

Not with the world, but to myself.  

 

Will this anger seep through my skin and pollute my vision?  

 

I hope I don’t need rage to make a statement.   

I hope I can still be quiet and be heard.   

I hope I can call my father’s name from my frail and failing throat.   

I hope I can still call home and hear my father's voice.   

 

I hope my parents know how proud I am of them.   

I hope my parents are proud of me.   

I hope to one day return all my siblings' missing shirts.   

 

I hope — I don’t end up alone,   

And convince myself this is peace.   

I hope peace doesn’t feel so silent. 

 

I hope peace sounds like a full house, 

with my nephew's laughter echoing through the walls, 

His squeals, his little footsteps— 

out of breath from whatever adventure needs attending to.   

 

 

 

 

I hope peace feels like my mother’s cheek as she pulls me close to her -  

scolding me for not covering my food in the microwave or walking barefoot 

 

I hope I reincarnate as an ash tree -  

my trunks will reach towards the heavens while  

Its roots delve deep into the underworld.   

So, one day my grandchildren can climb my branches,  

their tiny hands mediating temporality.   

 

My bark covered in braille, stories of my aging, what is life,  

how gentle,  

        sweet, and 

              fleeting each moment is.   

 

I hope peace is upon me,   

And it lasts   

Until it grows into weeds and hibiscus that pull me   

Into everlasting sleep.   

 

 

Father’s Moon  

 

My father always says to me,   

I see the moon before you.  

 

He breaks down his childhood with proverbs,   

Weaves stories of strolling through suburbs, to save a dollar.   

Thanks to him, my pocket is full gold—I call this my education.   

Though we live in and speak in different tongues  

 

But 

To be stripped of an accent — daylight robbers stealing the echoes from my syllables, twisting them into drunken waves that carry away the essence of my homeland, its rivers and oceans now distant. 

Teaching me to mimic a white tongue. Not enough toothpaste to rid of a breath stained by assimilation. 

I call this puppetry; they call this opportunity. 

Yet, I've sat in countless classrooms, listened in on lectures, heard students blame accents for their failed marks. 

Yet, they have only ever woken up to a rose-tinted sun and moon. 

Yet, they fail to understand that intelligence speaks in multiple languages. 

They demand English from us. 

Yet, they veil their insults in cryptic codes, wield passive aggression like a weapon, 

Firing bullets at our backs, leaving behind empty casings for us to collect.   

Cameras rolling, ready to broadcast to the world, us as the danger. 

 

Their rules and regulations - so I can’t sit at their table.   

1. Don’t be too loud,  

2. Change your name to something more... digestible.  

3. Straighten your hair,  

4. Dim your glow,  

5. Don’t even think about wearing your fro.   

 

They give me a receipt to say, Look at what I’ve done for you, 

The things I took from you,   

Tie this paper to the ankle on you,   

To be the anchor weighing on you,   

To remind you of your place.   

 

Oh my! What an uproar we cause.   

 

Many do not see my father's lunar view.   

So, when you ask him of his greatest pride,  

He calls on the fruits of his labour.   

He calls them “my children”—   

Oghomwen, Omoregie, Omosigho.   

 

When my father says he sees the moon before me, he's asking:   

Child, what is heavy on your mind?   

Why do you worry?   

Why are you scared to move?   

Manoeuvre,   

Start over,   

Take-over,   

Take care of yourself.   

Child, let me share your weight.   

 

Don’t you know that with every fold in my skin, I am an archive?   

So, use me to heal you,   

Use me to understand you.   

This is my vow to you.   

 

So, when night calls, and black curtains are pinned to the sky by the moon,   

Know that my love is always watching over you.