She translated the language of flesh,
explained how a canal creased her forehead,
the way streams crested to form a river near her ears,
pointed out the palisades that pocked her skin,
a moraine, then a shallow valley, crevices,
a roadway under construction, erosion by the eyes.
“I worked hard everyday,” she said,
“raised five children and a husband who passed.
This darkness near my nose, when war came to our village
and this long sag, when we ate lemon grass due to famine.
Now I live with my children, grand children,
great grand children in their compound.
I work harder than I ever worked before.”
Her eyes began to glow noon sunshine,
and when she smiled, her face relaxed
into a calm pond of red blossoming lily pads.