Roses of Sharon
Instead of dwelling
On the thirst of wanting
Till my tongue becomes a dry cloth
Roughened with the stomp of nostalgic mumblings,
I choose to crawl to the spring
Of the bubbling phantoms
That hearkens to me;
I opt to smell the Roses of Sharon
That sway in the fields of reminiscence
As they release the winded sighs
Of my soft yearning
I will not pluck a petal,
From these flowers,
Nor collect pollen in the hem of my dress;
It is greedy to trap a transient flash;
& rob it of the charm of its brevity,
“Thou shall not covet”;
& I will not confine a god to a moment.
I will sanctify this remembrance
A hallowed chalice,
That tames the waves of a throbbing heart;
I will pronounce this tide of reverence
A consecrated cup that
Nourishes the quietude
Hiding in the delicate traces
Of my museum of echoes
The sway of the flowers
& the gentle current of the spring’s water
Will be the priestesses who guide my devotion
& the sacrament that redeems
The gluttony in my ache
A Ritual’s Liturgy
In this poem,
I will place clay in your hands,
On the eighth day,
There will be silence,
There will be light,
& there will be a creation,
& a reverent invocation will rise,
To echo the first hymn of the morning.
In this poem;
I ask for a name,
I ask for a prayer,
I ask for the light that manifests,
When a confession buried
Beneath a tongue escapes,
& makes a home in the morning dew.
In this poem,
There is a ritual,
Masquerading as a rhyme;
In this poem,
There is a wish that unfolds,
To vindicate the dust of wistful longing,
That pools beneath its elusive wings.
In this poem,
I will stitch my guilt,
Into the frayed threads of my fabric,
& immerse it in a stirring perfume,
Adorning it for the hands
That will wrest it from me,
& I will mourn the violence of its loss,
But not the fragmented emptiness of its absence.
In this poem,
I will show you,
How to roll your tongue,
To embrace the fluctuations
That cloak the euphony of your vowels;
I will show you,
How to tame the turbulent waters,
That slip into the forgotten syllables of your enunciation;
I will show you,
How hunger thickens in the chasm of muted fervour
& how to unearth the fitting words,
To immortalise your conclusion.
The Breath of Vanishing Memories
A lingering missingness,
Collects itself in the corners of her eyes;
A persistent farness,
Unravels, etching itself,
Into the sunken hollows on her face;
Perhaps, there should be a word
Crafted to capture,
The exile memory imposes
On its offerings of a mildewy epoch,
Whenever a body ages, and its skin sags;
Perhaps there should be a name
Woven in the dying exhale of the day,
Suspended in the veil of
The softened glow of a setting sun,
Or sitting at the tip of the night’s unfolding silhouette;
So that when the woman’s loss,
Becomes a tangible and breathing thing,
She can summon its phonetic genealogy,
And command it to loosen its grip,
On the throat of her memories.
Salama Wainaina is a Kenyan writer whose work has appeared in The Kalahari Review, Brittle Paper, The Shallow Tales Review and The Journal of African Youth Literature (JAY Lit) where she was a co-winner of the Inaugural JAY Lit Prize for Poetry 2024. She writes at https://artofsal.wordpress.com/ and tweets at @apoetsepitaph
Cover photo credit: Saul Bandera Brotheridge