DEPRESSED by Ahmed Shayo

We are familiar with the sounds of knives
When the blades crash on the floor,
Blunt end slipped from slippery fingers of our children.
We shout & tell them to stop playing with blades.
We know the sound of stolen sugar.
The silence
Of noisy children
Rings loudest in the kitchen,
Cupboards & tins hanging open like broken jaws,
Hands down their mouths
Plundering crystal treasure with sticky fingers.
We shout & tell them their next cup of tea will have no sugar.
We know the signs of rebellion.
Missing pyres of matchsticks
Reveal themselves from
The smoke of lit cigarettes,
Stubbed blunts,
And lips a cemetery grey of ash where
Had once been.
We shout and spare the rod and spoil the child,
Bad manners has it’s own designated consequence.
But the grimmest days are those that replace shouts with screams,
When a dark sorrow that creeps past sugar cupboards
& matchbox drawers
And hidden knives,
Urges a noose around our children’s necks
And hangs them on ceilings,
Trying to remain
High above the reach
Of their depression.
There are no signs of their grief,
It does not coat their fingers with stolen sugar
Or line their lips with cigarette tar.
It does not announce itself like clattered utensils
Or reveal itself like a discovered theft.
It simply becomes,
Like vacuum from a heartbreak.
Like fear in the darkness.
Like goosebumps in winter cold.
Mothers grab fistfuls of hair
And punch the air with pain,
Blaspheme on ancient melanin gods
And demand an apology from the earth,
But the ground only opens its mouth to embrace
Another grave,
And in a month or two its lips will have sealed back
With roots of wild grass.
The sun would burn insultively on storms.
And the dark sorrow would slither off
Into the space of her tilted world,
Making her axis imbalanced so she had
More nights
& lesser days.



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