The Weight of Water

  And I sit up on the kitchen counter

  To hear her soaring Rosina,

  And remember Mama as she was,

  Poised and powerful,

  Lungs that could cut glass.

  Before Tata left.

  Before Coventry.

  We hear nasty people every night

  Cursing Christ and

  All the Saints In Heaven.

  Mama blesses herself,

  Showers the room in holy water

  And insists I say my prayers,

  Which I do,

  Hiding underneath the feather duvet

  Hoping God will hear me

  Here

  In Coventry.

  Before England

  Mama pitched a coffee cup

  At the wall.

  Tata shouted:

  ‘Are you crazy?

  Are you? Crazy!’

  Babcia picked up the pieces

  As usual,

  And mopped up the coffee.

  Mama stamped her way

  To the pantry to

  Knead dough.

  Tata turned up the television.

  I had two parents then,

  But I couldn’t be in two places,

  So I sat with Babcia,

  Away from them both.

  Mama showed me the note from Tata

  The day he disappeared.

  Ola, I have gone to England

  Is all he wrote.

  I got no note.

  And no mention in the one to Mama.

  Mama cried for two whole years.

  And Babcia held her all this time.

  I didn’t cry, even though Tata forgot me,

  Even though I had a right to cry.

  Babcia said, ‘He didn’t leave you, Kasienka,’

  Which was a lie.

  Because he didn’t take me with him.

  She just meant, Behave yourself –

  I’m dealing with your mother.

  Then a cheque came from Tata,

  In an envelope

  With a clear postmark.

  And Mama knew what to do.

  Now we share a damp bed

  In a strange place.

  Mama is still crying.

  But Babcia isn’t here to hold her.

  And my arms are too short for the job.

  Rain

  It rains relentlessly.

  Rain

  Rain

  Rain.

  All.

  Day.

  Long.

  It is in my knuckles and my knees –

  The damp.

  And I’ve no galoshes

  Or welly boots to wear.

  So I wear my snow boots to school

  To keep my feet dry.

  The other children stare.

  But I don’t care.

  At least my feet are dry.

  Mama says, ‘Don’t worry, Kasienka,

  They have summers here too.’

  But I don’t know

  About that.

  Swimming

  Mama pays,

  Reluctantly:

  Presses two coins into my palm

  As though she’s passing me a secret.

  Tata taught me to swim.

  Taught me to be strong.

  It was no good grumbling

  Or wrinkling my nose

  Or crying – like a girl –

  Tata didn’t care about that.

  ‘Kick your legs

  From the hip,

  Not the feet.

  Now climb towards me

  With your arms.’

  After swimming Tata

  Bought me ice cream:

  Blueberry in a cup,

  ‘For my Olympian.’

  I never want to

  Paddle and play in the pool.

  I’m here to work hard.

  Do lengths.

  Up and

  Down,

  Up and

  Down,

  The power of my own body

  Fluent, fluid,

  Propelling me forward

  Like a pebble from

  A catapult.

  A boy from my school is here.

  A boy from Year Nine,

  I think.

  He is perched on the edge of the diving board watching me.

  Up and

  Down,

  Up and

  Down.

  And when I am below him

  At the deep end,

  He gets up, raises his arms,

  And like a hunting hawk

  Plunges into the water

  Effortlessly.

  Surfacing, he bobs about

  Gazing again.

  So I swim fast,

  To outswim his stare

  And make Tata proud,

  Even though there’ll be no

  Blueberry ice cream

  Today.

  I don’t know the diving boy,

  The gawking hawk boy.

  But he is in Year Nine.

  And he is older than me.

  Disco

  A poster in the classroom

  Announces a dance.

  A disco.

  For Year Seven.

  Everyone’s excited.

  And Everyone’s going.

  Everyone but me.

  For three reasons:

  I’m twelve.

  Almost thirteen.

  Not eleven.

  Deceiver

  In the City Arcade

  There is a shop where

  Each item is one pound.

  They sell everything

  In that shop

  For one pound.

  Just one pound.

  There are bags of chocolate for one pound.

  And orange Halloween decorations.

  They sell fairy wings

  And cricket sets.

  It’s astounding:

  Everything one pound!

  Mama picks up a box,

  Turns it over in her hands.

  It is just one pound.

  But after inspection Mama

  Puts it down, slowly,

  And moves to the cashier

  To pay for my socks and knickers.

  It is a box of make-up –

  Creams and powder shades:

  For eyes and lips and cheeks.

  In my pocket I have a five-pound note

  Babcia gave me

  Before I left.

  And I want to buy Mama

  The big box of make-up

  She can’t afford

  Or pay for my own socks.

  But I want the five pounds too.

  I want the five pounds more.

  I make a fist around the note in my coat pocket.

  ‘Good girl, Kasienka,’ Mama says.

  Mama says, ‘Good girl, Kasienka,’

  Every day.

  Even when I’m not so good.

  Road Atlas

  Mama found a map

  In a shop called

  The British Heart Foundation.

  She says:

  ‘Tata is somewhere in this city,

  And we are going to find him.’

  She speaks like an officer

  Commanding a line of troops –

  Forgetting we are only two

  And presuming I wish to enlist.

  She unfolds the map

  Across the floor

  To prepare a plan of attack,

  Flattens it carefully

  And says:

  ‘This is where we live,’

  And points, with a pencil,

  To an empty space.

  ‘How lucky we are,

  Kasienka, love.

  So close to Tata.

  He is here. Somewhere.’

  Mama looks up and I clap gently,

  Fraudulently applaud her project,

  While my insides tighten at one question:

  What happens if we find him?

  Mama waves the pencil over the map br />
  And it flutters from the movement in the air,

  As her heart must flutter

  Whenever she thinks of Tata.

  I wish my heart did that

  When I thought of him.

  Or anyone.

  But there is no space

  In my belly for butterflies.

  The Odyssey

  I

  Mama makes me knock and

  I inch forward

  To tap lightly –

  Once.

  But when Mama tuts

  I knock again.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Harder

  This time.

  A round man in a string vest appears.

  He shakes his head, wags a furious finger.

  ‘No,’ he growls. ‘Whatever it is you want.’

  Mama prods me.

  Pushes me forward –

  Me and my English.

  ‘We are looking for a man,’

  Is all I can say

  Because I am mesmerised by the puffy nipples

  Poking through the holes in the man’s vest.

  ‘Do I look like some kind of poofter to you?

  Get lost. Go on!’

  He slams the door

  In my face.

  Just once.

  HARD.

  ‘What’s a poofter, Mama?’ I ask.

  ‘A type of landlord, Kasienka,’ Mama says,

  Very sure of her English.

  II

  The old lady wants to help.

  She looks sorry

  For not knowing more,

  Tells us she will ask her friends

  At Tuesday bingo

  If they’ve seen Tata.

  Her head rolls to one side,

  Heavy with regret,

  And this makes me feel

  Very small.

  III

  There is no answer

  At the next house,

  Just drawn curtains

  And a closed wooden door

  With the paint peeling.

  IV

  When it gets dark,

  I want to go home.

  ‘One more street, Kasienka,

  Then home. I’ll make bigos,’ she says.

  But Mama misunderstands.

  When I say home, I don’t mean

  The Studio.

  V

  She is too tired to make the bigos,

  And throws together cheese sandwiches

  For dinner instead.

  Then she unfolds her map

  And marks the streets we have searched.

  ‘It could take us for ever,’ I complain,

  Though not too loudly,

  For fear of pinching Mama’s mood.

  ‘You in a hurry to be somewhere else?’

  Mama asks

  And goes back to the map,

  Leaving me to my pessimism and

  French homework.

  Kanoro

  Kanoro lives in our building.

  In the next room.

  He shares a bathroom with Mama and me.

  But he is not a nasty person:

  He is beautiful.

  He is blacker than anyone I have ever met.

  Skin like

  Wet ink.

  And he scares me,

  Until he smiles:

  Pink,

  All gums,

  A smile that makes his eyes twinkle.

  In Kenya he was a doctor.

  ‘For children,’ he explains.

  Again the smile,

  The gums.

  The twinkle.

  In Coventry he is a cleaner

  At a hospital,

  Like Mama.

  ‘I like to work in hospitals,’ Kanoro says.

  Mama laughs:

  ‘They think you are nothing,

  These receptionist women and porter men.

  But you are better than them;

  You are a doctor,

  And they don’t know it.

  Ignorant English.’

  Kanoro shakes his head

  And like stars at dawn

  The twinkle disappears.

  ‘It is Kanoro who is ignorant,

  If he thinks he is better.

  There is honour in all things,’ he says.

  Mama winces, then smiles.

  And in her smile there is an

  Inky glint.

  When I Go Swimming Again

  The staring boy is there,

  Sitting on the tiles

  With his feet in the water.

  Kicking.

  I hurry to the other end of the pool,

  Head down,

  Hands hiding my chest,

  Planning to dive in,

  To save myself.

  But somehow I stumble

  And fall,

  Making a mighty

  SPLASH

  That attracts too much attention.

  Mistaken

  When Mama said,

  ‘We’re going to England,’

  I didn’t see myself

  Alone.

  I knew I’d be different,

  Foreign.

  I knew I wouldn’t understand

  Everything.

  But I thought, maybe, I’d be exotic,

  Like a red squirrel among the grey,

  Like an English girl would be in Gdańsk.

  But I am not an English girl in Gdańsk.

  I’m a Pole in Coventry.

  And that is not the same thing

  At all.

  Group Work

  Five foreigners in my class

  And, very strange,

  Quite coincidentally,

  Teachers never put us

  To work in the same groups.

  Each group must be given

  Its fair share of duds.

  No need to overburden

  One particular person.

  This isn’t prejudice:

  None of the smart ones

  Ever end up together,

  None of the dim kids either,

  Or the noisy, naughty ones.

  Teachers aren’t stupid.

  But maybe they think we are,

  When they pretend to make

  Random selections.

  The teachers who do let us choose

  Make the mistake of thinking

  Everyone will find a place;

  But there are always

  One or two of us,

  Left sitting,

  Desperately scanning,

  Hoping to be considered

  By a group of unpopulars

  With too few people

  Before the teacher turns,

  Detects the exclusion

  And with a wagging finger says,

  ‘You! Work with them.’

  There is eye rolling and chair scraping

  As we shuffle forward,

  Unwanted and misused,

  Like old boots dragged

  From a river.

  William

  The boy from the swimming pool,

  The boy from Year Nine,

  The watcher,

  Is called William.

  He tells me I’m a mean swimmer

  And should be on the school team.

  I didn’t know there was a team,

  But I should be on it,

  William says.

  I’m mean,

  William says,

  Pushing his hair

  Out of his eyes

  And hitching up his jeans

  Which are slipping around his hips.

  He doesn’t say much more –

  He just stares,

  And this staring brings my dinner

  Back into my throat:

  Green beans and bacon.

  I swallow it quickly.

  And with twisted tongue tell him

  I’m twelve,

  Almost thirteen,

  In case he thinks otherwise.

  When I talk he l
ooks at me

  Like I am amazing

  And then he says,

  ‘Why are you in Year Seven?’

  And I don’t want him to think

  I’m stupid, so I have to say,

  ‘It’s because I’m Polish.

  I’m in Year Seven because

  I’m Polish.’

  This is the truth

  And yet, it is only

  A small piece

  Of it.

  Small Secrets

  I tell Mama about the swim team

  But not about William.

  ‘No time for this, Kasienka,’

  Mama says. ‘We have to find Tata.’

  She points to the map

  Pinned to the wall like ugly art.

  I nod, yes, though I do not want to look for Tata –

  Tata does not want to be found;

  He is in hiding – he is hiding from us both,

  A truth that makes me grind my teeth sometimes.

  But I don’t tell Mama this,

  Even when we’re searching.

  Night after night,

  Street after street,

  One door at a time,

  And it’s raining,

  And I’m hungry,

  And teary,

  And tired,

  Because hope is all Mama has.

  And I cannot take it from her.