I wonder what she thinks about
Confined to her bed
A life long gone with only memories in her head

I wonder what she thinks about
Carefree as a child?
When she could be playful, free and wild

I wonder what she thinks about
The man she took as her husband
The happily ever after that was never bound

I wonder what she thinks about
When she had her kids at home
To love and care and nurture us, as we were her own

I wonder what she thinks about
Was she sad when we moved away?
Did she feel alone and abandoned as we went about our day?

I wonder what she thinks about
Laying motionless in her hell
A life that has now passed with only memories in an empty shell

7 | 31 Poems for August 2016

I wish heaven had visiting hours so everything you envisioned would be ours.
You promised me that I would never lose you to the wind no matter how hard it would blow.
But you’re gone now, you’re gone and the detrimental effect of your absence has started to show.
I still pray for better days to come my way but I can’t be too worried about what happens tomorrow.
I’m living on borrowed time; my days are numbered like a calendar and lately I’ve been feeling like the king of sorrow.
You showed me how to live life to the fullest but never taught me how to live without you.
Now my blue skies have faded to grey and my Mondays have gone blue.
You’ve drifted away like autumn leaves on a windy street, I guess heaven couldn’t wait for you.
But I am glad that you’re in a better place, the thought of you always puts a smile on my face.
I wish heaven had visiting hours so every beautiful thing you envisioned would be ours.

Why do you do what you do,
For many it is said for bounty adieu,
To live as long as they can reach,
Held in love that was not preached,

So,
Why do you do what you do,
Made in choice and decisions anew,
Lined with the convictions of the soul and hue,
Written in stone or chanced by clues,

So,
Why do you do what you do,
Searching for a golden cue,
Cure for the soldered shame,
Living towards a blackless blame,

So,
Why do you do what you do,
Is it for naught or is it for thought,
Is it for the righteousness in your mind that you sought?

My daughters are bleeding
over men who mirror their father.
My sons come home
drenched in the smell of illegality,
I wash the blood off of their jeans
weeping love into the red until the stains lift.

My husband’s face is scarred,
it wrinkles like brown tough dates
whilst he reels off stories from home,
he tells his own sons about touching sleeping women.
I wake up on the bathroom floor, stick ******* down my throat
until I can rid myself of his touch.

My country is so far away
and I came here for refuge
but this country does not feed us
and my children are starving.
I worked 52 hours this week
and I should’ve never left home.

My father-in-law blew his brains out,
my mother’s cancer has rotted her from her inside.
My children are growing up and forgetting me,
my small house has grown large without the voices of my children
and I am far from home.
I should’ve never left home.

I don't cut my skin for 24 hours, then 48
Then a week
Then two.
Practise abstinence in all forms
No drink, no drugs.
I don't stop my body from jittering and convulsing.
I let myself cry in the shower
Shave my legs without thinking off bleeding
Rest my nose between my mothers worried eyebrows
Kiss her scarred palms
Rub ointment into her feet
And go to bed smelling of lavender and love.
I wake up early, walk round the greenery. I don't open my mouth for 5 hours,
Plant seeds in my mamas garden and meditate where they'll bloom.
I refrain from eating meat. I drink a glass of milk when I wake
A glass before sleep.
I listen to Beyoncé. I watch French films without the subtitles.
Plan holidays.
I whisper prayers into my sleeping boyfriends neck
I go a whole day without thinking about our dead baby.
Walk to the train station and read the newspaper and never once think about jumping in front
Of my oncoming train.

My estranged father posts a status on Facebook, a joke, about choking dominant woman.
I wake up drunk, my arm sticking to a puddle of dried blood.
Cut chunks of flesh out of my forearm and leave a trail from the liquor store to my fathers gambling shop.
The next day I have a sore head, a sore arm. I starve myself for three days and let myself throw up watery bile into the toilet.

I start again.
I don't pick the scabs from my arm. I let red circular scarred skin form
Draw badly designed tattoos and make empty plans to cover them.
I call my friends, tell them how much I adore them, how beautiful and special they are,
How I never want to live a day without them
They call me cheesy. We laugh and make plans but we're all so busy. We hang up.
I practise excessiveness. Make my boyfriend ******. Laugh loudly. Put on too much makeup and spend £50 to eat out alone.
I call my aunties in Guyana. Let them speak for hours about a 'home' I've never been too.
Listen to stories about my mother, and her mother.
They ask me hushed voices if I'm still ill, tell me my mother has spent hours crying to them over me.
I tell them my plans.
Tell them I have a boyfriend.
I am studying. I am working, and loving and laughing.
They sound glad. They put me on to my dying grandmother and she prays for me
Tells me in strong accent that her children show her pictures of me on the computer
She tells me I am beautiful, so beautiful, she tells me I look just like my father.
We pause.
Her voice cracks and she praises Jesus for my health.
We say goodbyes. I promise to make more of an effort. Tell her I will visit her soon. Send my love to everyone and hang up.
I start reading two chapters of a book before bed.
Revisit old poetry. Write new words.
Dream in colour again, sing in the shower again.
I drink a glass of wine with my sisters and fall asleep being held by them.
I mute my father on Facebook.
Now we can start again.