Clean
The libraries offend me
like the ER and the subway
smell the ER in my egg sandwich
revolting
revolted
in my hands
it fuzzes my tongue
The libraries I knew were exclusive
only the learned could decipher the shelves
the well bred congregated and prepared for
the GMAT edited our Chevening and Beit applications
that would transport us
across an ocean
to lecture halls
of ancient universities
that we did not realize
we had outgrown
The father of the daughter can’t hold it in
“What is that smell Jesus’
The police laugh
at the father and not at the smell
‘This is a hospital man come on’
It is boils desiccated all the pus wept out
pressing the soiled fabric into stiff origami shapes
it is paper gowns juiced and thrown into dustbins
it is a pair of boots at the foot of a bed
walking all over the ward scrubbing their noxious scent
through the hairs in our noses, on our heads,
sticking toes into our mouths
more alive than the shattered lad foaming through
battered lips I’m going home I’m going home
‘That’s not happening’ says the nurse
approaching the lad, sedates him with a sweet Caribbean baritone
as the hospital cop cowers behind his broad West African shoulders
I don’t idle in libraries
resentful of their egalitarianism
how why everybody allowed in
to wash underarms in the sink
and lie comatose on the armchair by the desk
reserved for laptop users
‘What is that smell Jesus’
I nip in pick up my reserved books and out
The daughter smells of fight and flight
how why the father cannot smell his daughter
her neglect and chronic disgrace
dusty ears and neck
piercings bite her lip
I put my head against her old head scarf
(she left home without her wig)
and inhale deeply
to show the father
that I know
the daughter is
clean
Chiseche Salome