One Poem

Naivasha Chronicles 07
(2024)

 

My mother taught me to keep my voice low

so the neighbors would think we were happy.

 

She said, a boy’s body is a locked door,

he tucks his grief inside the lining of his skin.

 

When they came, they didn’t knock

– they named us before touching us,

as if to prove we were real.

 

I learned the shape of my name from their mouths.

I learned that language can bruise.

 

At night, we washed our bodies until we smelled like rain,

listening for a silence after prayer

that was louder than prayer itself.

 

When I left, I carried only a photo of my mother,

the sea folded in my chest,

& the taste of metal I couldn’t spit out.

 

People ask why I never speak much of home.

I tell them,

Where I come from is a knife I hide under my tongue,

so the world will think I am smiling.