mama/ i would make a fantastic woman/ the cabbages

i read somewhere that

you have to do things that will make

your mother cry

i’ve seen my mother cry only five times

almost always to grieve

grieving a friend

grieving a sister

grieving her mother

grieving herself

but once

she cried because i was crying

i cried enough to flood my childhood bedroom

a bedroom that no longer belongs to me

in a home that is no longer mine

she bathed me in verses of the Qur’an

like her five daily ablutions

she washed my back and said,

“you will be okay”

i’ve not known this care from her

before nor since then

maybe i should make my mother

cry more often

i would make a fantastic woman

i would flick through cookbooks

pick out your favourites

keep your stomach full

only eat for myself as an

afterthought

i would scrub the toilet clean

know never to mix bleach with anything

yet wonder what would happen anyway

i would keep the house teeming with

the laughter of our many children

borne of my ever-fertile self

against my very wishes

i would make my bed and lay in it

the way i made yours a few hours

before

hungry and clean and still

I would make a fantastic woman

when i am drunk,

i can fuck a man,

hold his hands, let him kiss my neck.

hot breath all over my collarbones, i can make him wait.

moaning out my name,

i feel the power in my rib cage,

fingertips brushing against thighs as he begs.

when i am sober,

in the grocery store,

a man will walk past me too close.

and i will want to throw up,

all over the cabbages.