Nafeesa final draft: SST8 Headline show

15 Feb

Morning. Colgate toothpaste.
The glass table? Chairs… sat on sofa.
Hand-made covers; satin,
Rough with age and too many arses.

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,
drip away.
I just wanted to cook the leavened dough

that had been
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;
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

I need to remember
my dad is watching.
He leans on the radiator,
his back too straight,
his eyes
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.
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
into me.

I don’t tell the officer
about the jagging
in my chest.

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