A Paint Bucket of Words

To Be A Wall

Of all the things to be,
the hardest one-
is to be a wall.

The wall with miles and miles of skin
where I learnt to draw.

Gave me its patient body
to dissect- peeling, picking
when I was bored.

I think I see it smile a little
when I trust it with my
study plans, sticky notes,
pretty frames and time tables never followed.

I cannot wrap my phalanges around it,
cannot hug it with my arms,
yet sure, it does exist.

Does exist enough to remind me
that just because I may not be able
to grasp many things,
doesn't mean they don't exist.

This wall, it may not be old enough
as the old storyteller,
where the children gathered and he sat up.
You can still see the dirty yellowed patch
he rested his bald head, scattered silver
upon.

It may not be old enough as the storyteller.

But it is old enough
to not be dismissed from the room
like the children of the house
when an argument breaks in.

Instead it cradles them-
the 'grownups' who fight and
the children who hide.
contains words-
'I am sorry', 'You weren't there',
'It's your fault', 'Back off',
.
.
.

Contains bodies within its body
'ssshhhh,'
the plaqued wall whispers.
Listen carefully-
it'll comfort.

He's no more now- the storyteller.
The wall stands alone-
bare, headless.
Still wears the dirty patch
on its chest with pride
and showcases the paper streamers
that the children put up for the old storyteller.

He's moved on now,
yet his apprentice stands-
the wall I lean into stands,
holds me up, holds us up
as we fall down, crying.

Takes in patiently
all the kicks and punches,
words and anger
that was meant for somebody else.

I used to think it beautiful
to be a storyteller, to stitch out poetry.
But now, I find it tragic-

To be able to house in you
lizards and flies,
crickets behind curtains and
ants burrowing inside.

To be able to hold in tears
and keep on standing.
I see the wall- damp and swollen,
behind the bed
and under the table.

To hoard in you stories,
where you stood helpless
instead of saving the day.

Of all the things be,
The hardest one is to be a wall.
And maybe, just maybe
a tragic beauty to be.

Zaynab
April 2021