Litany in which my father returns home safely at night

            Withered & silent, the trees on the street shrink.
Everything else is hidden in the light at night—a small decibel
            escaping someone’s window—I wonder what they are hiding
in music—what version of orgasm has the body found in that atmosphere
            of surrender. My sister’s doll sits on one of the single couches. A red
ribbon longs from under the stool. Outside, a dog barks. But we don’t
            know if it was truly a dog—the night so dark the lanterns scream—so
we heard the mourners as they spread their mouths like wings, something inside them
            a broken twig. My mother, gathering my brother’s hair in her hand, says, oluwa lo mo
omo to n tun ti jigbe bayi o—abi ta lo ku? ta lo run? a tie mo mo gan bayi.
            My father saunters in, high as sky. He is home alive. My sister rolls from
the long couch into the raffia. My mother lays my brother. They all go to sleep.
            We all go to sleep.