Could Be It Was Rose Poem by Sarah Mkhonza

My friend Rose,
Died while I,
Her friend, was
Away in other
Lands. I seek
Her in my mind
And wish I could
Tell her I had
No passport to
Travel to her end,
And lay her to
Rest, even though
I had not been there
When she crossed
The deep Jordan,
And went to the
Other side.

Could be it was
Rose who said to
Me, when we pass on
Make sure there
Are flowers, I mean
Lots of roses on
My grave. You see
Those flowers?
I want them all
Over even on the
Floor. I know I
Can trust you
To do that for
Me, for you always
Gave me a rose
Every Friday for
You knew no one
Would take me
Out for dinner
On the weekend,
Now that I am
Off the shelf.

Could be it was
Rose who said
To me her husband
Had locked her
Out of the house,
Making me livid
For I said, Rose
When your cruel
Husband whom I
Shared tears before
You married does
This to you,
Just come to my
House for you
Know there will
Be a bed for you,
Even if it means
Me and you must
Share the corners
Of a blanket and
Pull it this way
And that, the way
We did in our youth.

For it was indeed
Rose who shared the
Bed with me and we
Talked for hours,
In the night, until
Her grandma put out
A candle we had burnt
Out, for we were also
Reading a book about
Truths we wanted to
Know in our youth.
About men and their
Lives for we were
Trying to bring some
Into ours the way you
Blow them into your
Heart, like air going
Into a balloon.

Could be it is me
And Rose, so full of
Air in us. Talking
Love with men for
We had read Mills
And Boon and were
Full of love stories
We wanted to live,
With a chosen one
From lands afar. Now
We are at the crossroads,
Having taken paths
Different, into lands
Different, and ends
Different, for indeed
It is Rose. She has
Walked her path and
Ended her Journey,
With me on the tail
Still following the
Same truths watching
Her children marry,
The way we thought
We would and even
Almost did.

Ours is a story of
Rose, two girls
Whose story goes
Into blissful ends,
Where we see the
Ones once little
Growing into men,
And women who must
Journey like us.
These generations
That blow their
Air into balloons,
And get puffed up
For they do not
Believe we once
Stood on platforms
Wearing the very
Heels that they
Wear today, for
Theirs shine in
The path and help
Them take steps,
Where nobody can
Cause them to trip
With us looking
And shining the light.
For we are here
To kill a fly that
Lands on them, not
With a swap but surely
With a volley of
Words from our gut!