Untitled (because some things defy titles)

for Sylva, for Peter

how do you console a man
who death snatched from his arm his woman?

no waist beads to say prayers with,
no lanugo hair to trap conjugal heat
no kerosene, see the lantern’s dying wick
the room is still as if nothing left

the green house’s gate wears her grin on stapled paper
but not for long,
May’s rains is a cosmic janitor &
there is rust & hasty Makoko hands
impatiently holding nature’s call

there is nothing left except diapers &
a quiet whimper from the infant who
learns early to not crowd-source attention

no fresh laughter to consolidate memories
no fresh soups to commemorate cuisines
no fresh dreams to make sleep desirable
no stop watches to still things up

life goes. on like dying is a switch bulb
but when you press it back on, the room
is still empty & gloomy & her portrait now
gathers dust,
because life is everything and dust.