travel by Zakia Henderson-Brown
her face is just beginning to prove it cannot go unwatered for this long. her body looks ready to buckle— with a slow song:
to wilt
it looks like it’s time to head home. my mother’s powerful lilt
is alive with her impending trip and on the edge of each detail, a leaf lands in her lap until she is a portrait of autumn, skin spiced with the onset of tears, everything bared from the foundation. her father is beyond return from a trip he has been preparing to take all his life. his mind, in its eager manner, left long ago, left the limbs to find their own way— they are failing:
what good his body knows is in a long battle
with no longer knowing. my aunt is attempting to locate what's left him already her small smile, the compass, and failing. my mother is a fretful oak revving her wings what should i pack? her voice, a sapling; a magnificent black dress, an army of seeds, an armor
too. now each journey,
to cover him one last time, an army flag. the last time she went home, her mother left, a torture poised to croon.