Unraveled

An arrow is drawn in the sand

leading toward a mud hut

on the left side of the compound.

I enter the octagonal room

strewn with second-hand rag dolls,

wooden blocks, and a toy piano.

Courage lies motionless

on a hand-woven mat

chestnut eyes fixed

on the cone-shaped ceiling.

Legs fold into his body

like an accordion snapped shut.

Fingers glisten with saliva

hand-to-mouth.

The shea butter melting in my hands

smells like the west African coast

after the rainy season.

Hand under knee,

I begin to uncoil the seven-year-old

from his cocoon

stretching and kneading atrophied body

in succinct rhythm

with the low hum of crickets

the corners of his lips

tilting gently up.

© 2012 d.c.p.