Poetry • by Sarah Kabamba 1

Poetry by Sarah Kabamba Palate the snake in the cave of my throat lives off the skeleton of swallowed words swollen with syllables slowly twists itself around my bruised tongues bites down, angry wound that is my mouth fills with poison, i press my tongue into the roof of my mouth, and taste salt. She’s not scared of people leaving what terrifies her is what they leave behind the stench of their absences, the holes she has to keep filling to hide these phantom bodies. She cuts onions without crying, her mother always told her the trick was to press your tongue into the roof of your mouth. She presses down on the knife, cuts into her palms. Sometimes when he kisses her, she bites down on his lip so she can taste the sea. He winces. She massages spices into red meat the same way she touches him - wet hands, salt clinging to skin.   sour. The day after their wedding night, she washes the sheets with vinegar and water. He whistles as he goes out to the fields. She braids yellow beads into her dark hair, rubs lemon juice into her skin. The goat’s milk always comes out sour. He drinks it anyways, wipes his mouth against the back of his hand, his knuckles are always bruised. He brings her bleeding sunsets. She sits at the kitchen table and picks thorns out of her palms. bitter(sweet). because they are one and the same. he comes home from the fields, grass and mud clinging to his skin. she picks straw out of his hair and makes dolls, washes the earth out of his clothes. It clings to her skin, crawls underneath her fingernails, smudges on his skin when she touches him. She traces dirt trails on the bones of his back. When he yawns the cloying smell of roses fills the room. The walls smell different when he’s home. She opens up all the windows in the house when he’s gone, scrubs at the bedsheets until her arms are sore. umami. Because sometimes nothing   in english can say it. She ties her tongues in knots, lips Swahili into the cracks of voices, words, spaces, skin. He begins to forget, tells her she must learn english, speaks over her at grocery stores, restaurants, parties, the kitchen table. She sings lullabies in lost languages, her voice bounces off the walls long after he is gone, fills the spaces he’s left behind. She pulls herself out of his absences, teaches her daughter how to cut onions without crying.  [  >>>>>  FORWARD ]   + [Distillate © HA&L + Sarah Kabamba {from the Greek bios} -- the course of a life.]