My matron is more poetry,
The voids, the curls are brimmed
With cadence ballads.
She nurtures the hearts of her heirs
Who still read into the darkest days.
Her torso ripens to birth stories
In myriad tongues.
She amasses emblems pictured
On the web, away from the blinds.
Matron is more poetry,
The milk from her breasts
Sucked in our infant days,
Was made with calligraphy.
Every pale night,
She read into the dusks,
Our dilemmas to the Lord
That hearken to the dumb,
That hoist the eyebrows of men
Who never behold the beauty of the realm.
Her Haikus are read with
Heavy lingo, teary-eyed
And a vague mind.
Her love, like rays
Fondles the body.
This poem was published in the 6th Issue of PoeticAfrica magazine.
Please click here to download.
Read – I, Emily – Chris Baah (Ghana)
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