The Powerlessness in a Bastard’s Blood

You see, sometimes, when my mother gets mad with me
She sits on the stool, unties her headgear; and disintegrates into a million glass pieces
I pick one of the pieces, and in it is a sad reflection, which reads:

“When I got pregnant with you,
“My father sent me out of the house, ignoring my mother pleas.”
And he locked the young man who benevolently dispersed his seeds in my fertile ground.”
“When he came out, he ran, and that was the last I heard of him.”

I fling the piece away, but it is of no use, as I have already digested it and there lies it in my belly
I’m a loose thing. Other children bring Bliss — I didn’t.
My pathetic existence is fueled by the blood that runs in me
— a scarlet gift, given by my father, the thief who stole from a wayward woman
The Shame I constantly feel is like the cashew juice; it stains and never comes off

You see, when I was seven, a big man visited, but prior to the visit, my mother warned me sternly
She told me to be quiet and be soundless like the graveyard
Later that day, as I sat quietly in my room, a big rat passed
And I tried, I transformed my fear to a squeal
I heard the big man voice: “who’s that?”
My mother answered, “it’s from the next house.”

After he left, my mother rushed towards me.
She slapped me and spanked me so hard I sent curses to my father wherever he was
But all that happened when she was younger — when she could still pull my ears.
Nowadays, my mother just purposely drops me at the entrance to the home of God.
“Bastards have no place here,” the pastor says.

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