BEHIND THOSE WALLS
By Cherbo Geeplay
My wife whispered: somebody, go call Muna
to come here. Let her tell her dad what she
told me today. I asked: What’s going on
behind those walls in her room? Muna,
our daughter quiet spoke louder than
her usual. Yes, a
silence likened
to a suicide note.
The obvious depression you noticed, that
suicide written all over it, like a flower that
folds under a burning heat, that writes its
death on the walls of its garden somewhere
around the street. The hashtags were all on
Facebook, Twitter and in the Times. It says
a veil on the frontal fragments of a china
were chiseled, even as we hope for
redemption beyond all this preaching
from the pulpit, to protect
the vulnerable.
Only that each day
wears a mask and bears the scars
in the echo chambers of its halls, walls,
and dark alleys. Where a monster
did the unthinkable! If Cosby is
unmasked under the thunderclaps
of drudgery, in a fine
suit and a white smile
that stole our
hearts, how
many more were out there? She’s a
victim hiding in her room under the
clouds and the weight of her own
guilt. Her panties ripped off by
someone she trusted. Who
didn’t care, because no one
was looking? Did he
see the fear
in her eyes
and the shrieks in her voice
that said no! He went on anyway
and broke her will broke her spirit.
broke her virtue. Take back the
light! Though the bulb shines, and
bright pours on my dining table,
the recesses of
my mind is
dark like the empty void of a black
hole. His bed was the electric chair
on which she was executed. She
gave up and let him kill her,
because his greed was too
strong than his compassion,
his arms were too strong to resist
and her story won’t count, so she
kept quiet, burning inside like a
furnace, while the world went on.
______
Copyright Rigorous Literary, 2019, New Orleans Volume 2 Issue 4
Copyright ©
Cherbo Geeplay
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