Grandma’s perfume.

“Kaka”, we called her with fondness
Her arms always held out with kindness
The seams of her wrapper cakes with our mucus
Grand ma never minded that we caused a ruckus.

Tribal marks adorned her perfect cheeks
Like the staff of Poseidon, it speaks
Of long lost aged tradition
One that does not favour this generation

She was drama long before it existed
Her firewood skills have been tested
We loved her most for her soups
Like gluttons we ate in scoups

Smoke, ash, spices mixed with grasses
She tasted it all through the rims of her glasses
aroma hugs her body, and never wears off
As much as she could be merry, she was also tough.

Vera