She was made from a bulk of white stone.
Her first crutch to lean on, an IOU.
Laid and lying on borrowed ground,
knotted and gnarled, the sweet fruit
on a vine ripens and drops,
Give me Antares, the brightest star in the Scorpius nebula
as Libra season runs dry.
Give me Jack rendered dull by work without play
and Mia Farrow’s tannis root charm.
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All Day Breakfast, the first meal I have when
I return to the United Kingdom.
It is my fourth year leaving my hometown.
I prioritize the fried tomatoes,
Reluctantly. Gulping them down my throat.
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When we scooted off from the elite entrance of St. Joseph’s Primary School,
Not using tissues to rub her eyes.
As if Mum could gradually bear
Such grades. We all had tacit consent not to quarrel
While Dad was driving us home, bypassing
A hushed carnival
As crows cawed and ruffled their feathers up on the roller coaster.
Crouching and facepalming until they finished
Counselling me and scrawling their parents’ signatures on the transcript,
The spontaneous postures.
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Laid bare,
next to glistening candelabras,
bound naked atop shining silver,
served on a platter.
Placed next to glinting cutlery,
and fine wine to wash her down with.
A table set for a king.
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Sweet bubble bath, absorb me.
Smooth as buttermilk,
filling my senses with acrid lavender aroma.
Distorted features through shifting blue,
streaks of pale skin, rippling and dividing
as reflected tranquillity.
Tempting seeking hands to
break through the surface.
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I know what people say about African women,
especially aunties, and sometimes I laugh along
but I cannot help but combust into sparks of joy
when I think about the women in my family.
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Midnight strikes with pixy breath pervading
Across starlit doors once wide, slowly closed
With the sound of chiming, butter melting,
With the dawn approaching for sunset I end
On an island with cruel Calypso.
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For they used to grip the edges of the scorching bowls of soup,
For they used to knead the dough and imitate Jamie Oliver,
Sprinkling herbs and thymes over a Tesco-like pizza.
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I snuck the two in red wax,
tilting to the ether,
so slim.
Splintered wood stands stuck,
yet still santal, still sweet.
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It’s evergreen Alaska, glacier snow.
‘Not long to go’, the trees reply
to the bear’s stomach rumble, grumble
the rain from molecular skies.
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