Wednesday, 10 May 2017

Ma (Grandmother)

Your cataracts blinded
you from seeing what
your son had
become. The torment
he inflicted on the
five women
in his

Your big curly white hair,
wild and unruly, like your
spirit in the face of
late night screaming

The FBI are not after you,
mummy, he would say.
No-one is trying to steal
your identity.

My teenage
angst led only to
anger. Seeing you
as a burden.

I sit here, in wonder,
at the woman you
must have been.

What it took for you to
raise a house full of children,
a child yourself, a victim of
a bearded patriarch with a red
hot staff in his hand.

His death, leaving you with nine
mouths to feed, then their
premature deaths.
Rebellious entitled sons.

If only you lived another life.
I like to imagine your potential.
Then I remember that you
do. Through me.

Not for a second, do I forget
that my life started in
your womb.

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