I can’t be with-child! that’s what I told them. I am a child, I’m only 3.
You are 43, they said. Besides, you already have one.
ohh, I said.
I took my harmonica to my lips to play him a tune of lullabies
No no! They said, he is a grown man of 18.
Oh boy
How could I forget
The child is 18, I’m 43.
At the edge
Of a cliff
Ready to jump off
Doesn’t it look like his shoulders, I say, broad and tanned, the cliff.
Hanging on I want to hang on on him
I love him, Don’t I!? A son of Mine 43 I Do
Remember the night you were conceived?
The night when they entered me
Mother was second in line, right after my groom
They entered me one by one
Ravaged every piece of me
I say to him, we were, weren’t we, happy, the night when you were conceived, oh boy
Me, lying flat, You, just about to happen, Oh, boyOboy
No!
I said, I can’t be with-child, don’t you see?
Granny says then, Yes! no!
Mother says then, No! yes!
He says, –he, your father – Ladies, allow me to handle this.
Looking at you conceived at that split second, Mother says, Yes. He does handle, rather well.
The child is 18
I’m 43
My throat is sore
The child is sweet
I’ve got to fall down
My mind’s a jumble
Her hands with rough nails
Caressed my insides; Mother is ugly
I am 43
The child is 18
I love him so much
Aren’t his shoulders, Or, the small of his back, astounding!
My child, even though you’re sweet, my throat is sore; don’t you see?
There is a wound up here
There is a wound down here
.
Scarborough Toronto 2002