My Aunt, Florence, was not the kindred of time,
but of her many sorrows, time was one of them,
for she knew well to ignore its intrusion.
Time was her destiny, time her regulator,
which glittered in her eyes, cradled her mien;
the angelic curves of her cheeks, shades of her skin,
which refused to crumble or wither in old age.
At last, time assaulted her and she took revenge.
It was true what they said that she was for life,
and death did not interest her as a visitor;
she did not love these social ceremonies;
she had a mind that debased death, devalued it,
without engaging in an act of obsession;
in death, she was the antagonist of time,
who put her life in the hands of the river
flowing on the other side of a meadow,
and death could do nothing to undo it.
She did not cheat death, but the funeral,
where death would have sharpened its sting,
and defeat would have itched her palms.
Arriving late for her funeral was ire of death,
breaking open the sky to fly away from its shot,
resting in peace and place without a funeral.
She said the devil threatened her with eternal life,
but she must die first and award him her soul;
the thief, she said, wanted to sell her stolen goods,
and she began to count down the clock every night,
until she lost count and fell asleep, dreaming,
that she would have no funeral for arriving late,
and no soul and body to send to the devil.

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Written by Chibuike Ukah