Poetry | Ink Sweat and Tears

Afolabi Ezra

The Day Nothing Happened

It was a quiet day—
no bad news,
no sudden loss,
no reason to hold my breath.

I didn’t notice it at first,
how rare that is.

The sky stayed where it was,
the ground didn’t give way,
my phone remained silent
in the best possible way.

I drank water
without thinking about survival.
I laughed
and didn’t have to explain why.

It felt almost suspicious—
like peace was something borrowed,
something that might be taken back
if I looked at it too closely.

So I didn’t.

I let the day pass through me
unchallenged,
unquestioned—

and only later realized
it had been a gift
I almost ignored.

Afolabi Ezra

I’m six days late
and this is known as a
delinquent period.

You seem very far from home
and who would after all choose a grit pocked
pavement to languish on

Clouds spit on the coffin,
wring oily rags, splash
a woman, her violin
cased in sunken purple.

And did she break your heart?
A woman asks, perhaps imagining
A fallen chalice . . .

Four years in Knockaloe was a living
inspiration for inventor Joseph Pilates.

At thirteen I am competing with James Joyce,
encouraging pain, at the very least discomfort.

And here you are slid from the rain
under my door, “s” -ing along the cool
checks in the hallway.

You bought peppermint and bubbles,
monologued in the corner.
You barely looked at me twice.
– Grace Phillips

I looked at the neon lights
Gazing, I asked myself :
“What am I sourcing for now that I am without you ?”
– On Zi Rui

What is here for us but these walls and the
pearls of sweet yearning behind them