At seven I’m amazed by the grass
that snaps shut when touched
and how dark the night is.
Yamaye calls me often,
inviting me to befriend a mongrel dog
to wear yellow again, to allow my skin to ripen,
her voice older than stones,
warm like Nana’s hands
guiding me across the street:
‘come, come, si’dung, ease off di pressure’
her soft grip imprinted on me
like the sticky aftertaste
of genip on my tongue.
I don’t return until I’m 24,
she had lots to teach me
first, that I am actually English,
that everywhere outside my skin is foreign,
that safety inside my skin is not guaranteed,
and that there are times, as a woman,
that I will have to snap shut.
Ioney Smallhorne