the first poem after your departure
i am a f*cking mess —Lana Del Ray
it’s solemn the way the wind blows an empty street
at night the way a choir stings the church at a funeral,
the birds the way they open the morning— it is solemn
the way a grave opens, the way dried bones shift, fall off
a socket. it is solemn the way the door opens — shadows
falling out of light's mouth —& creaks as my father leaves.
the metaphor in this poem is that something is always lost.
my pocket full of cherries has grown empty. the morning that
you drowned, i was attempting to knife my wrist, turn apologies
inside this body into a plea. the thing is, i once sprayed lavender
in this room & it smelled like resurrection, like a terrible attempt
to cover this death raging beneath my skin. you once asked, what
would you wear to your own funeral? today, ayo, i wear your bravery--
our mother weeps into her bible, & the earth mocks her with rain.
it is easier to bleed when the sky is weeping, the house feels loneliest
when i am singing. what is life when everything looks like a cliff?
i bless my god that you left as solemn as the wind sweeping an empty
street at night. anguish is also a form of faith. our bodies know best
what absence can be. how the grave is the next thing to salvation,
how the cross is nothing but a fruitless tree. there is nothing as broken
as the promise of a second coming. i scream into my brother’s empty room.
i am a f*cking mess —Lana Del Ray
it’s solemn the way the wind blows an empty street
at night the way a choir stings the church at a funeral,
the birds the way they open the morning— it is solemn
the way a grave opens, the way dried bones shift, fall off
a socket. it is solemn the way the door opens — shadows
falling out of light's mouth —& creaks as my father leaves.
the metaphor in this poem is that something is always lost.
my pocket full of cherries has grown empty. the morning that
you drowned, i was attempting to knife my wrist, turn apologies
inside this body into a plea. the thing is, i once sprayed lavender
in this room & it smelled like resurrection, like a terrible attempt
to cover this death raging beneath my skin. you once asked, what
would you wear to your own funeral? today, ayo, i wear your bravery--
our mother weeps into her bible, & the earth mocks her with rain.
it is easier to bleed when the sky is weeping, the house feels loneliest
when i am singing. what is life when everything looks like a cliff?
i bless my god that you left as solemn as the wind sweeping an empty
street at night. anguish is also a form of faith. our bodies know best
what absence can be. how the grave is the next thing to salvation,
how the cross is nothing but a fruitless tree. there is nothing as broken
as the promise of a second coming. i scream into my brother’s empty room.
Adedayo Adeyemi Agarau is a human nutritionist, documentary photographer, and author of two chapbooks, For Boys Who Went & The Arrival of Rain. Adedayo was shortlisted for the Babishai Niwe Poetry Prize in 2018, Runner up of the Sehvage Poetry Prize, 2019. Adedayo is an Assistant Editor for Poetry at Animal Heart Press, a Contributing Editor for Poetry at Barren Magazine. His works have appeared or are forthcoming on Gaze, Glass, Jalada Africa, 8 Poems, Hellebore, Headway Lit, Nitrogen House and elsewhere. Adedayo is said to have curated and edited the biggest poetry anthology by Nigerian poets, Memento: An Anthology of Contemporary Nigerian Poetry. His chapbook, Origin of Names, was selected by Chris Abani and Kwame Dawes for New Generation African Poet (African Poetry Book Fund), 2020.