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& death swallowed my grandmother when i was twelve.

there are some memories that hunt you while asleep
& some spill goosebumps on the fabric of your skin.

i lost count of the nights i pour tears out my eyes, 
there were days i keep my fingers steady in the family gallery.

i listened to your voice breaking through the cracked walls,
you lit candles & placed them in the middle of your room,
& then drag silence in your chest &
spoke in tongues and scream at God to keep me safe.
 
when my scars developed into a city,
with dimmed lights & wrecked lanes,
you ironed smiles on your lips and still kiss me on the forehead.

how do i tell these stories of how your body spent days wearing off its texture from rotten scars?

the dark rooms here still hold your photograph,
the piano in the parlor eats dust
it must have thought about you & felt bored, too.

By: Aloysius S. Harmon is still struggling to beco
aloysius is a Liberian writer and a poet or sunflower.

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