Last week,
it rained so much,
the city shut down
and for the first time in years,
the old mango tree
in our compound
grew impatient
and uprooted itself.
The moss laden bark
crumbled loose from the trunk
when it hit the ground.
It now lies in an outline
as if to isolate
the scene of crime
from the rest of our lives.
Torn in uncalculated haste,
the white roots
stick out of the dirt
like blind accusations
at the weeping sky.
(Your mother asks,
Isn't this where I'd found her?
She laughs at how grave
your face had looked
as you demonstrated for a friend
the secrets of tea-making.
How best to rid the soil
of pebbles and suspensions
before mixing it with water.)
After you left,
I have spent nights
sitting on your bed,
trying to see
what you saw in the shadows
that the branches of our tree
threw on the walls at night,
when you called for me-
your voice impaling the walls,
like a wire
puncturing my slumber
to pull me out.
But, the years
have cataracted my eyes
and images have hardened.
Nothing ever flows
to rearrange itself into metaphors.
Shadows remain shadows.
Tonight, the walls are empty
and the nightmares
that plagued your nights
lie in the rot
along with the fallen branches,
and I wonder if I told you this,
would you return home.