}} Arms |

Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










Arms

My grandmother’s arms used to lodge an egg. Every time she wanted me to stop prattling on and
on, she would say, ‘Do you want to see the egg?’ I would snap into eagerness and wait,
run between the span of her arms as she would flex her biceps and I would then push the bump of
muscle with my index finger. All the while I would laugh. Eventually getting breathless, while she
soaked in the quiet.

Now: to steal a moment of speechlessness.

I straddle from the wrist, the elbow, the shoulder and the chest wandering through to the other side
of men’s arms only pausing to crash my nose into a nest of chest hair, to wrap them around me, to
fall asleep and dream of scrambled eggs for breakfast.

← Joshua Muyiwa