POETRY

By Ife­oluwa Ayandele

I know a door that leads to somewhere

in the dark and walking right through 

the door is like walking through a house

filled with the void of a ghost. I am outside 

my own body & my grief grows like wild plants 

in a garden of orange trees. I am the scream

of a child eaten by worms in a small coffin 

& what is left of my room is the anger of loss 

& of window cur­tains bawling in the wind. 

My dolls under­stand my absence & they scream

back at my ghost leaving the room. The priest 

sprin­kles holy water in my room to drive away

my ghost through the door but I am the keeper 

of the door & they that comes to my room must 

pass through me and I will dwell with them, 

for my room is a har­bin­ger of gods & those

that sprin­kle holy water in the house of god 

are his ser­vants. I am the child whose body 

is a doll of dreams & the dreams are lying 

in a small coffin. I am the loss you are trying 

to regain & my room is the relics of happiness.

This story orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 17.

Photo by Alexan­dre Lallemand