There’s never a perfect time to fall in love.
—Jide Badmus
The sweltering sun peers at me
while I pluck a blooming rose in
my aged mother’s garden. Unlike you,
I have no lover to give. No lover to hold it
tight against her chest like a promise,
to savour its fragrance, to caress its petals
like a baby’s cheeks. You guess the sun
bears witness that I am more single than
a figure. The priest prays I take after him
but it is a prayer that burns the old woman’s
throat. They said it is too late to find love at fifty.
That is why I answer “Brother Paul”. I forgive myself;
circumstances are good at naming. I forgive myself.
Single at fifty, I carry the weight of a lover’s absence
like a hunchback. Age is peeling me—my six packs
have vanished in the passage of time. The old woman’s
back still aches for a grandchild. At fifty, I am only
a warning to young men. God, trim me of this loneliness.
Like a rose in the garden, let the finger
of love find me like an insect finds nectar.
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