Fourteen Three
She smelled of skin wild lemongrass
clothes washed with blue soap
green thread mango bubbling in sugar
You could see her steam,
yellow
as annatto oil
and her colander thickened
from the good years.
I felt her slight
translucent
like oat and sugar flakes
drizzling from the fan
while Sabina and me
turned as we sang
My childhood sounded with rhythm
like the fan of my mother alone
to lower the night's fever
with the claps of my grandmother on the dough
and the sound of the river stone
would turn the cow into a calf
the garlic into lunch
poverty into riches.
No comments:
Post a Comment