After I painted her

Captive No More (III)

7.

Music is the language of tragedy,

and dance, the vocabulary of trauma.

Silence, the death of feelings,

marks the beginning of madness.

After my great grandmother in vain

yelled the name of her son, Akin,

several times, and got no response,

she stepped outside and scanned

where he was playing,

and yelled his name again,

when she did not see him there

her stomach sank

because down in the pit of her womb

she knew he was gone.