Nafeesa Hamid SST8 Scratch poem: line edit/3rd draft

8 Feb

1.     Dough

Morning. Colgate toothpaste.

The glass table. Chairs. Sat on sofa.

Hand-made covers; satin, rough

With age and too many arses.

Curry.

Mum was cooking curry just yesterday.

The night before.

Roti –

She used to make

it regularly

Back then.

People, customers, shop.

Police officer. Woman.

The Police Officer came

To throw dirt in the burn wound.

Our makan still smelled of hot roti from

the day before.

My mum must have pounded that dough

Until there was roti flour all over the house.

The Police Officer came

To throw dirt in the burn wound.

She wanted to retain the juices

That otherwise might drip away.

I just wanted to cook

The leavened dough that had been

Exposed

To too much air already,

And eat it all up.

But the Police Officer didn’t

Want to leave it to rest;

She wanted to pick through the grains

And bring back

The Baker.

Yesterday’s clothes were left crumpled in a corner;

Stained

forever.

I don’t know what happened to them.

My mum gives me

new, ironed

clothes to wear

and tells me to brush my teeth well.

The police are coming over

for tea

today.

I need to remember

my dad is watching.

He leans on the radiator,

his back too straight,

his eyes

wallowing

low

over his smile.

And he keeps asking

the officer

if she would like a drink.

I would like for him to

leave.

I would like for them all to

leave. Me.

To take their questions

and swallow them down

with their tea.

There is something jagging

in my chest, right there –

a duh duh duh

duh duh duh. Duh.

Right there.

Where his fingers had sweated

themselves

into me.

I don’t tell the officer

about the jagging

in my chest.

—————-

Length of performance: About 4 minutes

Tech/stage requirements: blue/ red light, 2 chairs, skipping rope, cloth to cover chairs (I will source), white flour, audio (police siren, heavy breathing, Bollywood acapella)

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