BODIES EXILED

In the beginning

My mother says every birth is a kind of exile
That the body we enter is both home and departure
I think of this when I see my brother’s body,
the wanderers’ bodies,
dust carried eastward by the Sahara’s breath
toward a paradise that will not open its gates

I saw my sister’s body –
the quiet language of bruises
her name folded under men’s hands
On television, I saw them again
their faces stuttering through the static
right before the blackout
when home began to smell of burnt offerings

My mother stands at the window
staring westward
waiting for their bodies to return
She keeps the door ajar
As if grief has manners
As if it will knock before entering

Sometimes, I think of them
as names carved into border walls
their tongues buried in languages
that forgot how to call them home

The priest says mercy is the tongue of heaven
But I have learned that mercy
is a door that opens only one way
Even God, I think, has stopped keeping count –
His hands heavy with the weight of unclaimed prayers

Still, mother lights candles
The smoke curls like questions
The air fills with the scent of waiting

At night, she whispers their names
into a cracked rosary
Each bead trembles
as if remembering the sound of their laughter

I once dreamt of the sea
They were there –
not drowning
but resting
The waves cradled them like forgiveness

So I write their names in sand
I know the tide will come
But I still hope
Something of them will remain
when the water recedes

Gloria Ameh

Gloria Ameh is a writer and poet from Benue State, Nigeria. Her work has been featured in Wakaso Women Anthology, Brittle Paper, Nigeria News Direct Poetry Column, Pawners Paper, and other platforms. She is the winner of the Vweta Chadwick Poetry Prize 2025, runner-up for the ANA/Dr. Frank Kyungun Literary Prize, and earned a Merit award in Word Quest. She is also a proud member of the Hill-Top Creative Arts Foundation.