Mother spoke of stray dogs that won’t heed
their masters’ warnings,
of fences low enough for a calf to breach…
but she never spoke of soft palms that cup a chin
like a porcelain dish,
while the thumb tests the strength of the bone.

Perhaps she should have mentioned eyes
clear as polished stones,
holding the precise reflection of your own face
rose-coloured and pristine,
while the kitchen knife stays hidden in the back pocket.

“They don’t warn children of leprosy,” she said,
stirring the pot until the soup turned thick.
“They let them roam the forest alone.”

If she had named the slow-motion stabs,
the deliberate weight of a fickle vow,
the soft coat worn over a chest of iron,
I might have recognised the forest
long before the trees closed around me.

Now, there is no blood on the terrazzo,
not a single tear in my dress.
Just the silent rustle of leaves on my grave,
my lungs remembering how to draw a full breath,
and the strange silence
of a room where a body has died standing up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Thiago Rosarii from Pexels