the years clutch her throat
every care less word is bulletproof
“some soils get too tired to be fertile
again.” the second veil is hanged
at the front of the holy of holies and
thundering hands are forbidden to ease
“but you grew us”
“I have no more wombs
you plucked a petal
he plucked a petal
she plucked a petal
bees no longer come this way
what do you suppose happens to a plant
when its sweetness dries?”
their incense crawls unto us, a cloud of separation
may it be answered prayer
©Awo Twumwaah 2018
Afua Awo Twumwa 