February 25, 2026

by EMMANUEL G G YAMBA

What I know about this body

I. 

I write this poem

in fragments

which is how

loss enters

the body 

II.

and so,

I pick my body up

from the floor

like broken glass

swept gently

with fingers

like frightened

candle flames.

III.

after leaving 

the stout bottle,

the scent

still clings

to my breath, the way

my father’s ghost

still lingers

in my bloodstream.

IV.

even the keyboard

summons his name

oh father

these machines, 

even they know,

how memory

refuses

to die

V.

another morning

emerges

from a night

after my aunt

loosens the blood

that ties us

like straws 

of broom

and flung 

my body 

like chaff.

VI.

then came the scriptures

soaked in stale comfort,

from a pastor's mouth

preaching heavens

nourished

by my unanswered prayers.

the same, abandon

yet open as if the sky

welcomes my beloved.

VII.

at dawn,

I sweep the yard

and still

leaves fall:

from trees.

I sweep again

nothing

changes.

VIII.

 what I mean to say is:

grief keeps falling 

like 

a familiar

name

to bury.

IX.

when it’s not 

a father 

then it’s his sister

lowered into earth,

prey to cancer

X.

I have mastered

the art of screaming

without a sound

my silence

a howl

lodged

beneath the ribs.

XI.

until the neighbor

fixes on me and says

Garyou wèh qwée

laughter spilling

with her friends

praise this boy

as if I held fire

and carried its light

as if

it rose into something

that still

stands

in ruin.

XII.

I smiled

like the loss

doesn’t ache

inside me,

like petals

hiding the nakedness

of a flower,

or

Adam’s mind

tricked into thinking 

that fig leaves

would deceive God.

XIII.

but I

I am an open door.

the wind

walks out of me;

people I love

enter again

with memory

& in a body

dominated by water

that has forgotten

how to overflow,

grief will remain.