The acid travelled up her throat,

And the henna wafted into her nose,

As the hanana added the black ink to her concoction,

To adorn the brides landscape.

First time to let the henna touch her feet,

Swirl around her heels and up her calves,

Her mother claps to the beat,

Rhythmically pounding the floor with her sway,

With acid swirling her gut,

and her heartstrings taut.

She was once here,

In between excitement and fright,

Embellishing her frame with Nubi speckled patterns,

Trying to imagine the look on his face.

The henna pushes through the nozzle,

The cold stream laid on skin,

Silencing the clap clap,

The smell is familiar,

the sensation is not.

And pushed back into existence,

the hanana asks “What does he like?”

And she replies

“What do I like?”