TWO PICTURES OF MOTHER
She squats. A stool sits under her butt:
a stool with an empty face covered
by the loosening hem of her wrapper.
Uncertainty is her companion of mind: to sit or not to sit.
The surface of her wrapper reflects
a motif patterned into jagged shapes of a cracked map.
There are rocks scattered about the map:
sedimentary rocks caked up
by particles of iced tears and coagulated blood.
Her face is a good land for mining.
It is covered by diamonds of darkling sweat.
Would she just wake her senses and sit?
She still squats. But a leg is raised.
The serenade of her body no longer glues her ripping wrapper.
Her wrapper falls in pieces like drizzly rain.
A mosaic of pocks is laid bare.
It’s a naked land populous with wiggling maggots:
Rotting pieces of scattered heads hang down her skin pores.
The heads are covered in caps made of bombs and guns,
as tattered paper notes fall off their dried tongues.
Her sweat is turning blood. She still squats on one leg.
Her flayed body is falling in love with the friendly pain.
Maybe she’ll just collapse and be married to that too.
About the author
Yusuff, Uthman Adekola writes to reflect his society. His works have appeared in a few international literary/non-literary journals and websites. He strongly believes in the use of art for social change.