For the Sonorous

I would be a terrible mother,

gasping at

bugs in cupboards,

brain freezes from ice-cream,

cartoon characters in free fall—

jaw open

as my wide eyes mirror yours

and you would know it’s because

mommy sees everything but

never learnt anything at all.

​

I would be what they call inappropriate

never scolding you to tuck your bra strap in

or sit with your legs closed

but warning you very young about men

with their hand crawling up from your knee who say

“Just a little bit. I love you so much. Please baby please.”

​

I would have nothing to tell you about your father

because I simply couldn’t remember

except the way he would kiss the space right between my shoulder blades—

and follow the curve of my spine shaped like a S-

colisis

—when his mouth was not busy

murmuring how he loved you harder than he ever loved himself.

​

I would never refer to you by your name

not even as my daughter

but always as Mo Tipti1

an extension of my loins

tiger cub from her scars-striped mother because

I would have wanted you despite the doctor vigorously shaking his head in disapproval,

wanted you despite your grandparents calling me selfish and irresponsible,

and carried you in my hostile body like a cursed gem

and you

would soon learn

that A stands for Autoimmune and Anticoagulants before ever standing for an Apple

which never managed to keep the doctor away

 

and I

would be a terrible mother

for being unable to make up stories—

mommy doesn’t know about beginnings and ends

mommy is a poet,

an imposter who steals wisps of emotions and life

putting them together in a collage, glued inside your eyelids

so you can marvel at the world

even when it refuses to show itself to you.

 

1“My little one” or “My offspring” in Mauritian Creole.