Sans Deficit Poem by Henrietta Ezegbe

Once she mistook quiet for safety.
Smallness felt strategic.
Love meant scanning faces for weather.

Now she enters bold.
Unarmored.
Intact.

She learned the architecture of her yes
a steep, living curve.
High yield.
It steadies the spine.
It does not tremble to be liked.

Once her generosity leaked.
Giving was currency.
Attention earned through accommodation.

Now her kindness stands upright.
No spill.
Filtered by a door
that opens from the inside.

She does not negotiate with absence.
She does not audition for devotion.
She does not perform hunger
to be fed.

Her life moves through her like current—
participation, not pursuit.
Power is consent.

On an evening dressed in roses
and prix fixe menus,
she walks home with bare hands
and an unoccupied calendar.

The air is clean.

She buys a hundred long-stemmed roses.
Sets the table for one.
Lights a candle because flame is beautiful.

Her phone rests silent.
It is not an accusation.

She dances to jazz.
Eats slowly.
Laughs.

There is no deficit in the room.

She is not waiting.
She is not rehearsing.

Love is not a transaction.
It is climate.

Once she believed fullness arrived from elsewhere.
Now she knows—
openness is the source.

From that practiced openness
rises a sovereignty so natural
it does not announce itself.

It stands.

A table set.
A door locked.
A heart unguarded.

Power—
not clenched.

Open.