Signs

No one is left here to eat by my fire.
My children have gone to the wood
with their earth coloured laughter
stitched up in a market blanket
I wore to announce my coming of age and that day
the other girls went pale and wanting
in the noon sun.

Let their journey be free from ghosts.
I have heard the old spirits chatter
planning my downfall
for my yams have always been eaten with pleasure
and my body has not been unfruitful
I do not squander my days at the market
nor bargain for what I cannot sell
I do not cover my yams with a cloth
when creditors pass
pretending they belong to another.
But I have only two children.
Neither was born by conjure nor in hiding
now they go to the wood
to the night to the gradual breaking
and they will return
men and silent
draped in impatience and indigo
signs of our separation.

As I go to wash myself before sun
I search my door-yard and wonder
if I will find the shattered pot
left as a sign to warn me
they shall never return.