consulting her in my dreams is what I do to keep respite,
chit chatter in my ear. like the drumming of samba in hot desert day,
the physicalities of her absence is too out of reach,
an oasis,
way too out of the realm of my network,
brain cannot fathom, cannot verbalise, or formalulate sentence,
understanding , a paradox,
but now I consult the dream land,
gifts of white and cream, of curries, of coconut,
where I see her cook up stories, and wisdom, and rice,
maybe this is madness,
maybe this is her gift to me,
backbone,
made of broken bones, plants, and gold,
blood warrior with grief stricken tissues, organs never failing,
a bleeding heart that never showed, that was not her strength,
yet the strength was in her movement,
her direction, agility and freedom,
everyone knew of her pain but she did not,
then there was me,
trying to find roots in a womb that was never mine,
but she held me, never reminded me of what I did not have,
her voice a spectre constantly whispering,
I laugh at myself,
at the generosity of my grief,