a silhouette of december
my grandmother braided clove // into her hair // to ward off // bad juju // she always believed //
courage could be found // in mango seeds // & she was the first person // to know the peace // of a
room of one’s own
when i think of her // i imagine a pair of black lungs // breeding carnations // i think of someone
occupying // the corner of a room // & a whole heart // simultaneously
protection spells // were cast & housed // in the pages // of her bible // where she blacked out //
occurrences of // ‘man’
a stiff // diabetic foot // washed & wrapped around my neck // for good luck
she’d walk into rooms // stealing the bones of oxtail // hiding them in her house dress //
to oil later // next to rosaries // praying for a life // of needle-less belly prodding // & to not be known
// by the way // her breasts // hung