When he asks you how many kissed your sun, tell him.
Smile and show him how their fingers traced the ridges and edges of your petals.
If he asks you how many opened you up and read you,
Word by word,
And the spaces in between with intermittent pauses, tell him.
Show him how your legs curved around their waist
wrapping like ivy vines
Fingers spread on the coffee-husk skin, turned thorny bristles,
Show him how they died a little inside your garden.

Georginah Ndanu
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