My younger sister (How these things go)

She is the size of my palm the day I first see her writhing in white slime, hair slicked back       like wet maize tassels on her head. for a few weeks her skin sheds, and we joke about how much the chunks of dead skin on the soft spot of her head, weigh when she…

If there had been an owl

My son          died the death I should have died,                   quietly         – he went – in his sleep. on that morning the sun shimmered like it had showered in gold – I would have understood if there had been an owl – two hoots (one for each year he breathed). and no sun…

Jambula tree

When Sylvie and I are six we eat jambula till our tongues turn indigo then we travel home with night licking our heels. In the morning, our foreheads still anointed in violet blessings, we twine our stick-arms around its branches and stuff banana fibre dolls in the hollows of its roots. We swaddle make-believe babies…