|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
|ART OF LIVING
After my grandmother and my uncle.
She wipes the water inside her eyes
with the hem of her slovenly skirt.
She sweetens her sour face with pretence.
Her only son sits inside her tiny
curled hand as though it’s a swivel seat;
he’s playing with sand on this sidewalk
with his malnourished little fingers.
Her right palm kisses her skinny chest
— each time vehicles approach— each time
vehicles pass by. Her hope given
to dust and thick exhausts’ smokes, each time.
Darkness around their eyes— moon shoots
out of the bowl she uses to collect
alms. Tears run across their cheeks
like lakes— gathering inside their mouths;
the tears, slipping into their dry mouths.
About D.M. Aderibigbe