The Weight of Water

  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
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  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