but I fear I lack the courage to accept it, I can’t
look it in the face & say, I’ve been waiting for you, welcome!
all through october I watched it sprout; a beginning
so patient yet terrifying. I felt it on the first night
when I dissolved in response to your hands,
the night when my overripened cheeks
went hurting from all that laughter. I felt it
yesterday as my room lit up from the headlights
on your car right outside my window; same feeling
after you gently rapped at my door twice — our agreed sign
to announce your arrival. your image in my head is a luxury,
the sweetest luxury ever. I think
up a question to ask time, for how long should I hold on to this?
because my mind is a child
is a vast field is a body is a wacky thing, yearning
to love; to be loved,
even when it’s unsure of the possibilities.
I am undone by the joy I feel.
by design, it should never be that way. it should never feel like
I am wrestling with my own judgements of what could be true
or not. there are certain things I’m keeping
from you. like the one dream I had of you.
I am on the synthetic ice rink again, everyone looking
just like you; the kids, the old couples, the skate rental attendants,
the on-ice guard who says, go easy, go slow. here, take my hand,
I’ll teach you how to skate. the wind embraces me
while I’m fighting to keep my balance; the colony of giggles
around me, the grasshoppers, the american elms, the sun shining
as if it rehearsed beforehand, my bumped tongue
from an accidental bite all join in the embrace. what really happened
on the actual day, how I remember it
is me sitting & trying on the skating shoes & complaining
that I couldn’t find my size & you standing next to me,
with the absolute cheerfulness that you wore,
saying the syllables of my native name slowly
so you could get it right. that day, the joy returned,
slicing through me & overflooding. I stifled my smile
upon the realization that the o in joy
is the same in love; o to mean the only one meant for you,
but maybe for now. if I were to name this joy,
with all of its gifts, I would fail to give it a fitting one.
I would fail since I lack faith in its nature,
having discarded that faith when it wouldn’t serve me
anymore. my mind is a hermit,
the animal sitting in the dirt, adamant.
it betrays the maddening that accompanies this joy.
it underestimates the need for a surrendering.
it knows hurt so well that it rejects anything good.
look, I have written you a story.
in the story you are synonymous with joy,
the easy, blossoming version.
look, I have written myself a story,
one in which I stop & say to myself,
so this is it, this is the part where I silence all my doubts.
Ohia, Ernest Chigaemezu is an MFA candidate in Poetry at the University of Alabama, and the poetry editor for ArtsLounge. Ernest’s creative writing has appeared or is forthcoming in publications including Lolwe, Rigorous, Nantygreens, Agbowo, The Muse, 20:35, and elsewhere. He is also an associate poetry editor for Black Warrior Review, and a reader for West Trade Review.