By request, a continuation of my poem, Omnipresent.
She sounds like
Raw chickpeas poured into a metal bowl.
She smells like
Sesame oil and ginger.
She looks like
The wrinkled end of a clove of garlic.
She moves like
A hummingbird’s wing.
She feels like
Dried rose petals in milk.
Turn your neck swiftly;
Jerk it around as if you just heard
Your dead mother speak
Because she feels like
Photo by Nordwood Themes on Unsplash
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