My Mother’s Hands
shed coral scales
& sunrise. In England, the inside
is ashen. She touches tangerine flowers,
when a woman
exiting her home in Camberwell cries,
go back to where you come from, as if
she carries still the scent
of dragon-fruit. I swallow
cherry stones. I flower
your abandoned garden
in my belly, to carry in me the whispers
of all your lost colours. I dream
in shades of lilac. Sometimes
my tummy hurts.
