My mother, an Hourglass
If the world should walk past me
with its eyes closed to my pain,
I have no power to hold it back.
It is nothing new, not a curse the way
we rebuke it. My mother’s life hangs
on the other side of the clock,
ruptured & wingless.
Just as the roof and the feeble wood
on which it sleeps, nails confessing to weakness.
Rust trailing after ruins.
There is always a metaphor to remind
you of death. And I know why this one hurt;
she stretches her heart towards heaven,
asking for miracles. Yet days ash into
a hopeless pursuit, and you know what it means,
for evening to wait on the balcony
The same way this body hopes that night
is enough to sustain my sadness.
Body of Water
Annah Atane is a Nigerian writer. Her works have appeared in the Brittle Paper, The Menniscus, The Muse journal, Valiant Scribe, The Kalahari Review, Inverse Journal and elsewhere. She can be found at @Annah Atane on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.
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