by on February 18, 2021 :: 0 comments

A stack of dried sticks,
send mother’s call to the red earth;
the people of dust rise in response.

She bends with the grace of the night sky, arranging firewood in the tripod stove.

‘I cannot promise
that the world will like you
my son.’

The skin on her tender hands, weave the path to wisdom. The air heralds the smell of kerosene and soon,
I hear the wrangles of fire and wind.

‘Life is a jealous circle;
you mustn’t be the

The pot-bellied stove tells a joke to the pot and they laugh.

Mother’s lemon peel scent falls to the ground;
blue smoke suckles at her breast.

With back to the heavens and a spoon in hand, the secrets of cooking, are spelt in the pot.

I steal the shape of her face, her glistening eyes – in slow motion – are kneading doughs.

‘The rose is only beautiful
when it stands

She uses her wrapper to kiss her eyes, and bring down the pot of soup.

– David Solomon

editors note:

Where we learn pot from kettle. – mh clay

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