By Jasmine Anderson

It had to have been my mother who opened the side door
 
for the sun to creep in.

He broke curfew
  
the night before  –
 
the smell of cigarettes
  
clinging to his shirt 

a wet trail of light 
 
sogging the house – 

No no no 

My mother is dead.
  
There's greenery in the kitchen, 

she probably shopped 

through the hibiscus garden 
 
and vased its leaves.  

I‘d join her next time,  

when these ones wither 
 
No no no  

My mother is dead
 
On Wednesday I’ll be 40 

time pressed more iron into my head 

tomorrow I’ll call her to watch the kids 

She won’t give me a hard time 

No. 

Your mother is dead.

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About the Author:

Jasmine Anderson is a poet and playwright from The Bahamas. A National Arts Festival awardee for classical monologue dramatization, they have performed works by James Catalyn, Nicolette Bethel, and Valicia Rolle. Their poetry explores themes of femininity, family, and loss, delving into the intimate and unspoken. They serve as the president of UB Theatre and are currently pursuing a degree in English at the University of The Bahamas.