Lights Out: Animashaun Ameen

Where I’m from, I can only love

the people I love properly

in the absence of light.

In the absence of light, I’d

place my body gently on their body,

hold their hands in mine as our bodies

become a country of unified passion.

I’d watch as their mouth grow into stories

of how they survived the day. How a man

they can’t recognize groped them and called

them names they’d rather not remember. How he looked

them in the eye & in the same breath,

told them existence is a price too divine for them.

& we’d laugh about things that needed to be laughed about

& cry about things that needed to be watered down with tears.

& we’d make love in that gentle way lovers make love;

carefully and intentionally, like a well written poem.

& they’d cry a little bit into my shoulder, mourning

all the things we could have been but will never be bold enough to be.

& I’d cry a little bit into their skin, mourning everything we are because

with the break of dawn, we’d have to shed everything we are

& try and retrace our steps all over again – as lovers,

in the absence of light.

Animashaun Ameen is a Nigerian poet whose writings are mostly centered on memory, sexuality, and identity. His works have appeared/forthcoming in  Salamander Mag, Lolwe, Bluestem Poetry, Agbowo, Foglifter Press, Roadrunner Review, and elsewhere. He lives and writes from Lagos, Nigeria. An oddball. A butterfly. He tweets @AmeenAnimashaun

Image (c) David Talley/Unsplash