Untranslated Poem by Henrietta Ezegbe

She learned

there are rooms

that welcome
her usefulness

before
they welcome
her.

So she became
fluent.
In silence.
In the careful
tailoring of herself.

In eye contact
held exactly
long enough.

She learned
which light
required explanation

and which light
arrived
already believed.

People called it
confidence.
She remembered
the rehearsals.

People called it
intimidating.
She remembered
surviving.

Even love arrived
with conditions.

Smile smaller.

Pray quieter.

Let the mirror
keep its secrets.

Make precision
look accidental.

Carry what was given

without letting it catch
too much light.

Tend every gift
with care,
then apologize
for the harvest.

Do not make your own
feel diminished.
Do not make the room
question itself.

There are exclusions

that happen
without doors.

Only conversations
that stop
half a sentence
before your name.

She carried them
for years.

Until one winter
she noticed
the sun
never dimmed
its light
for fear
of the snow.

Now
she enters
without apology.

Not because
every room
has changed.

Because she no longer
mistakes
being misunderstood

for being
misplaced.

The work
remains.

To heal
without hardening.
To forgive
without returning
the knife.

To keep
the lamp trimmed
even when
its brightness
reveals
who cannot bear
to look.

Some mornings

that prayer
is enough.