I woke my mother early in the morning.
Clots of yellow reed netted my first cry into valley basin bowls.
We saw one another first in the dawn hut
beneath our tall Mugumo fig, she and I quiet,
both of us suddenly owned.
We would never know each other again in this way,
beyond the slick skin and blood -
and in years of dusks
our brooms would sweep separately and silently.
Brown feet are chased
through oiled alleys by leaves of bone winters,
flitting in hot haste to lick thick heeled children home.
Each shall return to find in the kitchen,
covered in maize,
a mother blackening her breast.
Verses wended in high humidity,
we each must be weaned from many things.
We see in youth
that we would be dirges for plains
scoured with elegiac choir,
we few wild flora
strung in perpetuated autumn.
Author notes
Amondi - Kenyan female name meaning "born at dawn."
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Comments
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this is excellent...I love the first stanza...captivating, creative, powerful imagery and story, so sad=(
...as always, beautiful penning, Jen, a pleasure
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Thanks so much Tara.
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Poigant, deeply moving, vulnerable, raw & lovely, Jen. You have such a gift, my Friend. Published yet?
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Not since last you inquired, unfortunately. Thank you so for the kind encouragement.
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