by Fizzah Abbas
Such a sad song!
I often say this while wiping my tears
on my mama’s handkerchief.
My cousin always nudges.
It’s a romantic song, silly,
I smile every time,
when she says that.
Yeah, it’s a romantic song
but have you noticed the melancholy in her voice?
Oh c’mon, you’re too sensitive.
Sen-si-ti-vi-ty – 5 syllables, 5 vowel sounds,
with the repetition of i three times.
‘Sexy’, ‘Body’, ‘Sexy’ – the voice rings in my ears,
‘i’, ‘not ready’, ‘do’-, ‘no’-, ‘for’– ‘me’, ‘i’,
10 vowels, 1 guy.
I was his sister-in-law’s favourite student,
‘I’ before that day, ‘i’ now.
You are mistaken, dear,
he reads the Koran daily.
You’re right, mama.
My body is a Holy verse
where he needs to emboss a print, I agree.
Your teacher said,
he considers you like his daughter.
Of course, he does.
A nuclide formed by the decay of another.
Birthmark the same, identity different.
It must be a ‘slip of the hand’,
he is not a harasser
Remember dad’s funeral when J took me upstairs
to show me the stars, too, are mourning?
He gave me a warm hug,
so warm mama, I could feel his tush,
it was kindness, yes.
And when uncle K called me into his room,
he genuinely meant I look good in pink.
Tell me something, mama,
has papa ever been this kind too?