Author: Aziza Brown, Childhood, Family


I remember a girl with two suns
glowing in her cheeks,
curls sprouting from her scalp like flowers.
Her eyes would swim with the tears of kindness,
as bright as the moon she would talk to for hours.

Her voice quaked with excitement
for the smallest of things,
her heart flying high as if it had wings.
And when she sat atop
her father’s strong shoulders,
when her mother’s arms became
too small to hold her,
She would run her fingers along his prickly head,
ignore the pins and needles that crippled her legs,
and breathe in the scent of his clothes instead,
of brown shoe polish and a box of cigarettes.

I remember a girl who wrote poems to the wind,
who couldn’t help but fall in love with everything
Even the rock
that scraped skin off her little naked toes
and the moth
who nibbles holes in all her favourite clothes
And the shrivelled, lonely man
on the side of the road,
with a body warm from alcohol
but with eyes stone cold
I remember her fading,
like the faint orange light,
the last embers of sun before it fades
into night.
I cry for her now,
and write poems for her too,
I hope she’s not displeased
with the things I’ve had to do.
If only time could be reversed,
and my luck could go up;
perhaps she wouldn’t have had to die
and I wouldn’t have had to grow up.



 Home could be a roof and four walls,
with immaculate windows
and magnificent doors.
Home could be the dense branches of trees,
The anthills in fields,
Or the hives of bees.
Home could be where the river meets the sea,
Or how the fingers of your lover
slot with yours perfectly.
Home could be the scent of paint
splattered on your skin,
Or the rib-tickling laughter
that makes your head spin.
Home could be where the sun
grazes the ocean,
Or where the whirling dervish spins
in breathless devotion.
Home could be the feeling of your curls
let loose in the breeze,
Or raindrops on your lashes,
And soil on your knees.

For some, Home is God’s embrace,
for others;
a figment of their dreams.
But for me,
It’s the slow and steady glide
of my pen
when I’m splitting at the seams.

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