Otieno,
you once sat on a rock,
eyes perched toward the sunset,
a navy blue scarf
loose around your neck.
You were worn,
yet neat and clean,
like the aftertaste of whiskey,
before your lips ever welcomed
the gentle burn
of a blunt.
You loved,
hard and aware,
with too much heart
and a madness
that set boys ablaze on their feet,
into men,
because love was home,
and home was the only place
that allowed you
to be a child.
You loved,
because love
was elusive,
and it knew
how to call you,
suddenly, softly, then gently,
like the whisperer of death.
And being a weary traveler,
you had always known:
this heart of yours is a traveler,
journeying its path
with a series of rests.
And
when the time for rest came,
Otieno,
you forgot that rest
is just rest,
a pause to rethink,
to realign momentum
before proceeding.
Rest was never
a destination,
but love dressed it
like arrival,
laid out its welcome mat,
and made it feel like one.
And when the rest was over,
Otieno,
you raced into the jungle
and bested love.
You summoned love into the arena of your heart
to tame it,
to wound it.
You looked love in the eye and said,
“one of us will walk out of this crawling,
and it ain’t gonna be me.”
Love stared you back in the eyes,
laughed, then said,
“Let’s have at it.”
You wrestled in the name of love,
my brother,
Love
did not loosen its grip.
and that
is where
the wound began,
slow,
flickering like hope,
a faulty bulb
that still believed
it was light.
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