I scoop two pink palms like petals in the cups of my hands,
smell the delicate floral fragrance
of powder you just dusted on our seven pounds of flesh
after nine months of expectancy. You
frame my scruffy face etched with the load of machine guns and
tightly-wound vision of dying mates, on
a desert spell seven months stretched. It melts into shades of
longing until we’re fused in
a cowrie shell, and gurgle the night with doubts. At dawn we bead
hopes of a distant togetherness.
On a funereal day drenched with soundless lament of another adieu,
I see your hands having
agency as you knead the dough, the last before one more
surrender to our hyphenated lives. My fatigues
imagine your wait for fantasies to crowd around a simple
floor-length cotton dress.