On her hands

Unassuming creatures but she did not talk without them

When she described a dress she wore a lifetime ago

She would journey the fingers of one

Against the palm of the other

As if to weave fabric and press them to her face (you can almost see the dress caressing her eyelids)

On her eyes

She bore such a sad look on such beautiful eyes

On her legs

They carried her until they didn’t

On her smell

Most often of onions

Sometimes she smelled like river water

And later, sinking leaves

On her voice

her voice?



I have trouble remembering.

*This poem won second place in the 2020 Bloomsday Poetry Competition sponsored by the Embassy of Ireland, Nigeria. More details here.