And so it’s perfect.
We’re partners.
Me on numbers.
Him on words.
Love is a Large W
Love is watching
Love is waiting
Love is wanting
Love is worrying
Love is wishing
Love is willing
Love is whispers
Love is wet
Love is wordless
Love is Him
Love is Me
Love is We
Love is . . .
Love is . . .
Ah.
William.
Kenilworth Castle
We went on a school trip to Warwick Castle
But I couldn’t believe in that place –
So symmetrical,
So perfectly preserved,
So clean
It reminded me of Disney Land –
What I imagine Disney Land would look like.
I could make no sense of its shine.
When I tell William he agrees.
We both think castles should be crumbling
After all those years,
To prove they’ve seen
Real history.
And history is struggle
And war,
We think.
So he takes me to Kenilworth
On the bus with him.
To see the ruins in the rain.
Elizabeth
Kept her favourite here,
In Kenilworth.
And Time stood still when she came:
The Great Clock Tower
Stopped
For her
And they feasted and frolicked,
Elizabeth and her favourite –
Right here.
And it is the most romantic place I’ve ever seen:
Kenilworth Castle continuing to
Crumble, as it should,
in the rain.
Lottery
Kanoro slumps on the stone steps
Of our old building
Clasping a piece of paper
In his fist
Like it’s a losing lottery ticket.
He pats the step
Inviting me to sit too.
We watch the traffic,
The women pushing prams and
The gangs in hoods.
I can tell from his silence that
Kanoro holds a heavy confession.
I think he wants to reveal the terrible tale,
The one he told Mama,
The horrible one I can’t know.
But it’s worse than that.
It’s Tata.
‘Your father’s address,’ he says,
Slipping me the paper
He’s been holding.
I take it,
Afraid to look,
Though I don’t know why.
‘Go alone, Kasienka.
Don’t take Mama Ola.’
‘Is Tata alive?’ I ask.
Kanoro nods and shakes his head.
Which might mean
Tata’s half dead,
Or should be.
Ending the Odyssey
The driver won’t reopen the doors
Once they’re closed,
Even when a man runs
To catch up
And raps on the glass
Begging to be admitted.
The driver doesn’t even look
Across at the man,
At the closed door.
He acts like he can’t hear him,
But we all can.
Someone has smeared something red
Across the window of the bus.
It smells of tomato.
It may have been a
Piece of pizza.
The woman next to me
Keeps muttering to herself
And laughing.
The children at the back
Shout at a passerby,
Words in a mixing bowl.
I ring the bell,
A small red button
On the metal post,
And in my head a booming
As I signal stop,
And in my heart a bomb.
When the driver slows
And pulls over,
I consider sitting back down
Next to the muttering woman
And the smeared window,
And getting off at a different stop
Where there’s nothing to unravel.
And no answers to fear.
The Bungalow
A woman opens the door
To the squat house.
She is wearing slippers
And a pink dressing gown
Though it is still light out.
She is distracted by a noise inside,
The sound of a small child crying.
She turns away for a moment
And then looks at me again.
I tell her my name.
And some of my story.
She ushers me in:
She wants me to meet the child
And wait for Tata.
Cold Hot Chocolate
I know the sound of Tata’s whistling.
He’s over a block away
When I hear him coming
Carrying the melody.
When he sees me
He isn’t surprised – or pleased.
And neither am I, yet I say,
‘I’ve found you, Tata!’
A line I’ve practised for days.
For months.
Tata’s whistle I recognise,
But I don’t recognise Tata.
He has a weak beard
Which stops him from smiling
And he is thin.
He looks at the woman
Who says, ‘I know.’
But what does she know?
She takes the child upstairs
And I hear crying –
Coming from the woman,
Not from the child.
Tata leads me to the large kitchen
And makes hot chocolate
Using a clean, steel kettle.
‘It is hard thing to explain –
to a child,’ he says
Without looking at me
To see how much I’ve grown.
I don’t listen much.
His little bee sting words
Hurt.
Tata peels an orange,
The skin coming away
In one expert movement
Creating a bitter coil
On the counter.
He splits the orange in two,
Rests one half before me,
Eats the other half himself,
Pips and all.
Tata looks at the clock above the sink.
The hot chocolate is untouched
And cold
In the cup.
I am cold too
So I stand to leave.
‘Will you come and see Mama?’ I ask.
Tata looks at the clock again
And says,
In English,
‘Eventually.’
Blame
My stomach tightens into a rock
Because I am so angry with Tata.
Every time Mama looks at
Her map on the wall –
Every time Mama pulls on
Her coat and walking shoes –
Every time Mama opens up
Her purse and frowns –
Every time Mama comes to
Bed and lies awake weeping.
I am so angry that
My stomach is a stone
I wish I could throw at Tata.
A Letter I Never Send
Tata,
We came to Coventry to find you,
Mama and me.
We looked and looked.
Now you know we are here
I’m not looking,
I’m waiting.
I don’t want
to wait and wait,
what’s the point?
Mama loves you again;
she’s sorry.
Can’t you be sorry too?
Then we can go back to Babcia,
back to Gdańsk,
home.
Please, Tata.
Kasienka
The Bell Jar
It was in the sixth-form section
Of the library.
I liked the fuchsia cover. I liked her name.
Plath. A name like a heavy breath.
And I read. Slowly I read. In English.
About Plath’s desire to die.
And I wonder if I could do that.
I wonder if I could surrender.
And take my last breaths
Instead of living with a rock
In my belly.
Skin Deep
‘She isn’t even pretty,’
I tell Kanoro.
We are shelling peas for dinner,
Popping more into our mouths
Than we put in the pan.
‘She isn’t as pretty as Mama,’
I tell him.
Kanoro isn’t surprised.
He shakes his head.
He sees Mama’s grace,
And sometimes he creates it.
‘And the child isn’t as pretty as you,’
Kanoro says.
He knows this will make me cry,
Which I do.
I Didn’t Mean to Go Back
To see Tata,
And Melanie,
And the baby
Briony,
Who is my sister,
Although they haven’t said so,
And I don’t ask.
It just happened,
Quite naturally,
And I never
Mention it
To Mama.
Something draws me.
It isn’t the hot chocolate;
I never can finish a cup.
It isn’t the monstrous television;
It only ever plays cartoons.
It is, maybe, the calm family feel
Of the kitchen,
Where Melanie
Throws food into the microwave,
Clothes into the washing machine,
Going about her chores with pleasure – ease –
And not complaining, or too tired to play
With the baby
Or talk to me
When Tata’s not around.
Melanie
I don’t want her to be nice.
It isn’t her job.
And it makes me feel wicked
When she offers me a piece of cheesecake,
More than I could possibly eat,
With as much cream as I like.
It would be easier if
She hated me,
Then I wouldn’t feel so guilty.
She could turn me away
When I stand at
The doorstep
Hungry and tired –
The out-of-date daughter.
She doesn’t do that.
She wouldn’t.
Because she’s nice.
She makes milkshakes.
Any flavour I like.
She asks about me :
About school,
Swimming,
Poland –
Never about Mama,
Of course.
I don’t always respond.
I sulk a lot.
To show her what she is
And what she’s done.
But she doesn’t seem to notice.
She doesn’t expect me to like her.
No moods when
I ignore the child.
And when Tata’s around
She leaves us alone.
She knows she isn’t welcome,
Isn’t a part of this history
Or of us.
I want to hate Melanie,
But I can see why Tata wants her.
And sometimes, when Melanie
Leaves the room
I wish she’d stayed,
Because she’s easier to be with
Than Tata;
She looks me straight in the eye
Which is more than he can ever do.
The Gospel According to Tata
Tata didn’t teach me to lie,
Now he’s condoning it,
Every time I land at his door
And he doesn’t mention Mama.
Every time he offers me money
To pay for my silence.
Tata took me to church
Though I protested some Sundays
Because virtue matters,
He’d said.
Tata taught me prayers
That took hours to recite –
The Holy Rosary and
How to hold the beads,
To count the prayers,
Do daily worship.
Tata wrote the rules
We had to follow –
Rules he never read
Himself.
Tata’s ashamed
Whenever he has to see me
And be reminded of the sin
He never planned to commit.
Lady Godiva
The long-haired Lady Godiva rode naked
As a new lamb
Through the Saxon streets of Coventry.
Her husband should have loved her more.
He should have loved her enough to
Concede,
To keep her safe from Peeping Tom.
Now, in Broadgate,
There is a statue, a misplaced tribute
Outside a coffee shop.
And no one stops to look up
At the brave, bronze Lady Godiva,
Who cared more for others
Than for her own modesty,
Apart from the odd teenage boy
Who doesn’t really look at Godiva
But at something else,
And misses the point completely.
Ready
Mama listens to Madame Butterfly and
Sings along to ‘Un Bel Di Vedremo’.
When she hits a high note,
One only she can reach,
She raises her hands
Like a soprano on stage at
The Grand Theatre.
She is so bold
I imagine she is capable of anything.
So I tell her the truth.
She shuts off the music,
Sits on the bed and twists her
Hands in her lap.
I see she is seething,
But her mouth stays still
While I tell her everything
Except who found Tata.
And then she says,
‘You should have told me sooner.
Do you think Mama is an idiot?
This woman must think Mama is an idiot.
Tata thinks Mama is an idiot too.
It’s Tata and Kasienka now,
Isn’t it?’
I want to tell her that it will
Never be Tata and Kasienka –
It’s true, Tata doesn’t want her,
But he doesn’t want me either.
Mama is up and out the door
Before I can defend myself,
Before I can beg her to stay,
Before I can say ‘I love you
The Most.’
Guilty
We are playing Scrabble,
Staring at plastic squares and
Pretending to practise our English,
Permitting Polish and Swahili,
When Mama returns.
We know where she’s been because
Her face is swollen,
And she cannot speak.
Kanoro stands and moves to the door,
But Mama puts a hand out to stop him.
Stay.
‘Stay,’ I say,
Holding on to Kanoro’s shirt tail.
He brews Mama a drink
/>
With something in it to help her play
Scrabble without wheezing.
Mama can’t look at me,
Even when I set down a long word.
I am glad Kanoro is here.
I wouldn’t have known
What to do with Mama
When she came home
All mixed up,
Like the letters in the Scrabble bag,
Carrying with her a terrible sadness
And showing it off so
Unashamedly.
Motherless
Mama is so angry with me.
White,
Light,
Silent anger.
She cooks my meals,
Washes my clothes,
Sleeps next to me at night.
But Mama slams the pots
so I can hear her anger,
And burns the stews
so I can smell it,
And she avoids my eyes;
Not an easy thing to do
When we live together
In one room.
She looks at me sometimes.
Sometimes I catch her looking.
And when I do
She turns away –
Slowly,
Deliberately.
Enraged.
When I tell her I made
The swim team