In This Prayer Room

I am unlearning this art of lifting head
& lifting hands, with nothing to lift the
spirit
—Logan February.

I would not tell a lie, when your heels
exited the door, moths swarm into the
sitting room, forming a silhouette of
your frame. I bit my fingers hard and
black till the sun walked into the house
& drank tea in my sockets on your
favourite chair. Last harmattan was
cold: the bed sheets had fog on them.
Every night brought you curled. I lean
over, falling on pillows. I am the kitchen
you loved to make sweet jollof noises in,
& an empty glass cup missing your wine.
The space in my soul was a box
and you were claustrophobic—you
could not stand its smallness, so you
broke the walls down with a mallet,
made for escape, leaving crushed
cement in my mouth. I sent birds out
one morning in droves, with little neatly
packed boxes of your phone number,
your face & this poem. I hope you find
the one will colour you in silver &
lightning, & all I gave you in a single
piece of how best to love a woman who
breaks everything.

By Chiedozie Kelechi Danjuma

Biography:

Chiedozie Kelechi Danjuma’s work has appeared on African Writer, Kalahari Review, Praxis Magazine, Boom, and elsewhere. He is currently pursuing a law degree.