ISAWURU BY AREMU ADAMS

moment you hear it slip


from the doctor's mouth —


that medical journey


with foreboding survivors,






you turn from words


to silence, put your back


to the wind, unpack the clock arms.






you throw your hands round life's


cohesion, the oil spills in its bag.


you taste the acid metal of the rain.






night is a lid grieving


on light. stalks of shadows


sprout from pages






that once stilled your goldmines,


the eucalyptus leaves rust


to gold in the dew.






youth comes running to you


like broken toys. you binge on


silence, crease your fingers


to mimic the dimming stars.






you say nothing when in fact


you talk loud, & your silence


stretches above the gale.






dreaming of home, i used


to think of isawuru


the luscious greens & gleams


that warmed your heart to me;




the way your smiles played


to your cheeks, soaked to bones,


when we mocked the nightingales,


& lifted the flowers in the air.






i wonder if those days now mean


anything to you, mother, as you


nurture the ache in your throat,


the tests & tumour life, the prognosis


where the doctor left his goodbye note.