for H & to H. death seethed into a home & did not pass through the door nor the window; did not knock, greet or smile no one knew how it got in, but when it left you went missing. mother tried to remember a passage through in your sickness or a path in your frail palm: maybe they were cues so she began tracing maps, bit her fingers for not finding a blueprint. she searched in the innocent words you said & the clothes you wore —how you wore them & how they wore you. a friend said she’d seen you on Monday down the road, you smiled as she waved like her, everyone has something to say about the last time they saw you; on your way to the Madrasah. remember the year you'd almost died? your parents disbursed their hopes like bills now your name is sour on your father's lips & there is an eclipse on your mother's face: a sad reminder of your disappearance into dust.
Rahma O. Jimoh is a writer and nature photog. She is a 2021 Hues Foundation scholar and a 2020 Pushcart Prize Nominee. A lover of sunsets and monuments. She has been published or forthcoming in Feral, Praxis Magazine and The Hellebore. She was recently shortlisted as top ten in the Hysteria Writing Contest. She is the Poetry Editor for The Quills and a Poetry Reader at Chestnut Review.