Mother’s Presence & An Anticipation

That scent again, mother wears it a lot.
It sits across from me at the table, and pours
itself some tea
I stretch across the oval table, but
my hand only clutch idle air, it blows
a kiss of gust against my face.
I tumbled down a precipice the other
day, but my cartilage and tissue I
imagined would splatter in crimson
and pulp was salvaged by a body of
water that afterwards tottered into earth’s crevice,
mother’s scent hugged me until
her water parched.
Momental, immoment, momentum, momently, momser
and other harried ‘mom’ words cocktail at
my mouth’s tip in anticipation of
mother’s waft.

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Patricia Sukore @patricia_sukore is a lawyer and a writer. She lives in Nigeria with her husband and children.  Her works have appeared, or are forthcoming in Kalahari Review, Catapult, Nigerian Writers Publication,  Fiyah, Perhappened Mag, and elsewhere. When she is not writing…