By Jasmine Anderson
It had to have been my mother who opened the side door
for the sun to creep in.
He broke curfew
the night before –
the smell of cigarettes
clinging to his shirt
a wet trail of light
sogging the house –
No no no
My mother is dead.
There's greenery in the kitchen,
she probably shopped
through the hibiscus garden
and vased its leaves.
I‘d join her next time,
when these ones wither
No no no
My mother is dead
On Wednesday I’ll be 40
time pressed more iron into my head
tomorrow I’ll call her to watch the kids
She won’t give me a hard time
No.
Your mother is dead.
About the Author:
Jasmine Anderson is a poet and playwright from The Bahamas. A National Arts Festival awardee for classical monologue dramatization, they have performed works by James Catalyn, Nicolette Bethel, and Valicia Rolle. Their poetry explores themes of femininity, family, and loss, delving into the intimate and unspoken. They serve as the president of UB Theatre and are currently pursuing a degree in English at the University of The Bahamas.