Hope Wabuke
A year after the last time he has come back
and I have left him, his markings on my body
deepened from darkened bruise to press
within nerve, tendon and bone
I meet a friend for dinner. Pulled
one by one from the oyster mouth
of her unclasped red handbag
she gives me lemons, yellow pearls raw
in the press of becoming
and I understand how the first creation
was not of water and newborn pink flesh
but out of ashed embers
ended, that single
red-risen flame.