ISSUE 12

C.I. Aki

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No Sign Given

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“Forgiveness comes easy, forgetting does not.”

—Chris Abani

 

Line up all my former employers,

starting with him, the one with

pale eyes like winter suns.

Let him see the menacing promise

that coils around your wrist.

After that, he will comply.

 

Sit him down at the table,

the one with the faulty leg

and half-eaten Montecristo sandwich

on a wooden plate.

Do not tell him why he’s here.

I want him to feel the slow knifing

unanswered questions of How?

Why now? Who has taken him
from his home and placed him
in this inscrutable seat?
He will demand a sign,

but none shall be given.

 

Make sure all the windows are closed

and all the dishes are put away,

except for the wooden plate

with the half-eaten Montecristo sandwich.

Never mind the old, apple-faced

woman outside pleading for us

to be reasonable, holding up

official documents on his behalf

that list the good deeds he has done

for me and others of my kind.

The blood on her hands matches

her fingernail polish.

She is to be ignored.

 

Focus on him, with his slim

navy suit and matching navy tie.

Turn off all the lights in the flat,

except the brass pineapple sconce fixture

in the bathroom down the hall. He will see

the low glow from underneath

the closed door call to him from the floor,

above which a great stirring black presence

lingers in the darkness with complete immunity,

no longer out of mind, and therefore,

out of sight, but stirring,

a black inviolable splendor stirring.

 

Say nothing while he is thinking,

while he is daring to recognize

the face that waits in the shadows—

the same face that once carried

bittersweet tears on emaciated cheekbones

now plump with the future (or revenge).

I want him to know how it feels to wonder

if the answer to his burning question

has no harbinger. He will demand a sign,

but none shall be given.​​​​​

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