Love is Ajar, Khayelihle Benghu (December 2025)

Love is Ajar

Everything is sideways
In this period called life.
The spoon sings soprano,
the fridge hums in alto,
and the curtains do a two-step
with the wind.

My sister is a square.
Solid yet reliable.
She folds laundry like origami prayers
and guards the house with elbows sharp
and love
into confession.

My brother is a triangle.
Always pointing somewhere
up, out and away.
He plays jazz on the roof
with a saxophone made of tin
and dreams that echo
like goat bells in the valley.

Mama is a circle.
Round with stories,
soft with forgiveness.
She rolls through the kitchen
singing hymns to the onions,
anointing the stew
with holy oil and paprika.
 
Baba is a rectangle.
Tall and silent.
He stands like a cupboard
full of secrets and tools.
His laughter is rare
but when it comes,
it’s a drumbeat
that shakes the dust off our bones.

And me?
I’m a spiral.
Always turning,
never quite arriving.
I write poems on the walls
with chalk and leftover gravy,
trying to make sense
of the sideways gospel
we live.

Love is ajar.
Not locked.
Not wide open.
Just tilted
like a hymn sung off-key
but still holy.

And now I understand
when Jesus says,
“Behold, I stand at the door and knock.”

Because sometimes,
the door isn’t broken
it’s just ajar.
Waiting for love
to spiral in.