My grandmother straddles
Around the chucky. She funnels
A handful of maize into the hole
Then she turns the upper slab
Clockwise, just as her mother used to.
Sometimes she feels the grainy texture
Of her grandmother’s palm, sometimes
The flexible and awkward energy
Of young eager hands. Once
Light spilt from between the slab
Of the chucky and the mud dried room
Filled with the spirits of all our mothers
Voices spoke, voices hummed, voices
Sang of lush gardens, wondrous
And rich, of undying streams
And fountains that poured clear honey.
But usually all she can see
Is her aging hand, all she can feel
Is an aching absence. My mother
Has a Philips grinder and my sister
Knows how to change a fuse.
And when they make maize roti
We always have it with spinach
And lots of butter. Sometimes the scents
Swivel my grandmother’s elbow
Before our eyes and we recall
The story of how our mother
Ran in with dad to tell
Her mum of their plans to go to England
How the grinding stopped and the flour
Spilt and the sudden silence
Was interrupted by a gust
Which shut the door on the light.