Earthquake

This morning we were in the middle of putting the fire out with a feather duster, when all of a sudden my late grandmother finds her way in and decides to start breaking the wedding plates.

Strange, I remember saying, having never met. Let alone her wedding plates. But every second wife inherits someone’s plates on her wedding day. This side of the equator and that.

He sweeps the leftover china with the duster and then stamps on the plastic bottles to make them submit to recycling. All the bottles are full and spilled milk is now drowning our dog who is desperately looking for her wicker bed ship. Charlie, I say, give us a bark. But when she dreams she dreams of some other mother not me.

It’s all over in a matter of minutes not hours not days. What’s broken’s broken. We walk with care not to disturb my grandmother who, too, has just gone to sleep.

Easter

Each of us chooses an egg.

Uncle who has just passed away
gets the blue.

My first cousin wraps herself around
her sunny child. Yellow.

The boy next door brings a wooden one.
(We let him win for a while.)

My mother picks the most stubborn of the lot,
one that remains intact when all the others
are crushed and crumbed into saffron yolk.

The late uncle sneezes and we close all
the windows.

I tell you April has wide nostrils
and a touch of hay fever.

Father’s conversations with God

Today the man upstairs said no vacancy.
Knowing the white picket fence of sky
repaints itself every night, Dad keeps looking up.
Patience is leaving him alone with her ailing
entourage. Cardiac arrest is what he says
he worries about. The little black book is lost.

(The little red book is also gone.)

Next to him in the hospital an even older
man explains: In my village they say
if he misses your gate the first time around
you’ll have to wait an eternity or at least
until he’s done his rounds before he remembers
you again. The little white book is his chart.

(The little red book is mine.)

Knife

I almost killed her. Twice,
perhaps three times. I was a dangerous child.
Her knife loves the best meat; hers is a generous slice.

She held onto her belly and as I grew so did the price.
Her stew unmistakably Slavic—a little gamy, a touch wild.
I almost killed her. Twice.

The butcher knows his job and so does she. Rice,
dark rings of onion cooked until mild.
Her knife loves the best meat, hers is a generous slice.

Do not let it fester, she says dishing out advice.
When was the last time you smiled?
I almost killed her. Twice.

Blood gives colour to our conversations. What better to dice
an afternoon of grief, so neatly thawed and piled
—her knife cuts through, hers is a generous slice.

Her hands rush around the kitchen—two pregnant mice.
I’m all that’s left of her tears; flesh and blood dried
and clotting. I could have killed her. Twice.
Her knife loves even the toughest cuts. Hers is a generous slice.

Outside

No one bothers to look in:
two girls
heart’s crust intact
curiosity
in spades. The window overlooks
a small garden
where something yellow insists
on smelling of spring. The land
is already shaking
outside
it’s almost election time.
Notes
get bigger and bigger with each
mascara stroke.
Zeros get added and then
they take them off again
outside
it’s economic reforms one kiss
on the cheek
and the next it’s war.
Inside the girls know
nothing of the epicentre
nor its strength
on the Richter scale
but they can feel the tremors
outside
someone drops
a word
and the street goes up in flames.