an ageing woman, you scoop melon seeds

from their decomposed gourds at the back

yard; the sparrow cheeping is out of sight,

but like a fledge-less child folding its limbs

for a lurch, you immerse yourself in the

eddy of its longing, the flutters of memories

on your cheek. your mind merging with the

stutter of the old truck going up the slope.

you recollect a life of digging, seeding &

gathering. recall the drooping flowers dying

under the hot sun & your mother’s impatience,

while the land held its breath in expectation

of a rain that never came. decades of years,

you search for yourself in her eyes. once, or

twice abandoned by her lovers. your mother,

making room for her dreams, vows never to

apologize for her desire to be alone with her

bare fist; the worst thing good women do with

men who bruise their bodies. the sun winks,

widening with breath, your mother’s sisters,

menopausal, who like you, measured out each

day in silence, dreaming of young love. how for

years they live like this, in the grey edges, stripped

from their sockets. your gaze suspended, as your

slight frame braced low cupping what’s left of the

gourds: always you squeeze the seeds out of the

water, grip the wooden mesh firmly with the other

hand. & in the brush stroke of a painter, you spread

them on the blacktop outside the compound to sun

into blessings, beans fleshy and wet, horizoned

across the crown of your mothers’ tongue—