Speaking exam

I sit in the corner and take notes on your grammar,

Your vocabulary,

And your range of expression

While you tell each other about the wars in your countries:

The bullets,

Dictators-

The lives lost for religion,

Skin colour,

Or vanity.

I tick ‘gives detailed explanation’.

You talk about your brothers, mothers, fathers, sisters.

About when you were 15 and lived in a tent for six months.

“Do you talk to your family now?” a classmate asks another.

“I don’t know if my family are alive or dead”, comes the response.

‘Answers questions appropriately’, I tick.

I want to stop the exam and hug all of you.

Sunny Afternoon

A flash of red across my eyelids-

Dancing stars when I press my palms down,

And silence, rushing past my ears,

Cut by the wind and the neighbours outside.

Then the church bells toll,

But I forget to count the chimes.

Is it four o’clock? Or five?

Under this small patch of sunlight,

I curl up as much as I can,

Thinking: it must be so nice,

In these moments, to be a dog or a cat.

Nothing to do but wait for dinner,

Or stalk some leaves outside,

Or just sunbathe for hours.

Shall I fall asleep,

Try to dream of chasing rabbits and digging holes?

Soon

To eleven-year-old me:

Do you know how it feels to have to wear a school blouse which reveals your bra?

Which the boys will comment on and pull at?

Has anyone told you that you will never get a boyfriend if you don’t wear more make-up to school?

Have they told you to shave your legs, fix your eyebrows, wear your skirt shorter?

Have you been made to feel like you need to hide your period as a shameful secret?

Not yet, but soon.

To thirteen-year-old me:

Have strangers whistled, called, honked, stared at you in the street, and sent you explicit messages online?

Have they told you there’s a problem if you like penises, and a problem if you don’t?

Have you heard that if you get pregnant, you’ll be blamed, hurting, and alone?

Has your male PE teacher told you that period pains aren’t that bad, and you must be faking it?

Do you feel too fat, too thin, somehow the wrong shape, because you don’t exist for yourself but for boys to appreciate?

Not yet, but soon.

To fifteen-year-old me:

Have you been pushed out of the way on the pavement, multiple times, by groups of men?

Have men followed you and made you scared, while you were just walking your dog?

Have they told you that the burden of birth control side effects are yours to bear, because they don’t like condoms?

Have you heard that you ‘don’t need feminism in this country’ and that ‘if I want equality, I should be okay with being punched in the face’?

Not yet, but soon.

To eighteen-year-old me:

Have you been groped in the club, on the bus, at the park, on the tube and standing at the gate to your house?

Did other women tell you it was your fault because your shorts were too short?

Have several people explained to you that unwanted catcalls are a compliment?

Has your landlord expressed only to you, the sole woman in the flat, that he expects you to keep the flat clean?

Not yet, but soon.


To twenty-one-year-old me:

Have you been guilted, twisted, persuaded into sex when you didn’t really want to?

Have you noticed the men you sleep with don’t always care if you’re enjoying yourself?

Have you been called frigid for not wanting to, and slutty for having a good time?

Have you heard your boyfriend praised for doing the housework, while you do much more and remain unpraised?

Have you given him cash before going out to dinner, so it looks like he is paying and doesn’t feel embarrassed?

Do you feel upset because you’ve had too many conversations where people deny a wage gap exists, as women are at fault for having babies, not joining workplaces where they’re not welcomed, not asking for raises?

Not yet, but very, very soon.



To me now:

Have you stopped silencing yourself in fear of being too ‘screechy’, ‘aggressive’ or ‘hysterical’?

Have you started pointing out your own accomplishments, and to not let people make you feel uncomfortable?

Have you begun dressing for yourself, and not for the approval of others?

Have you tried to explain, every time you hear it, why the ‘not all men’ rhetoric is harmful and derails the conversation from the real issues?

No, not yet, but I am doing my best.

Jigsaw

The dial spins again-

Again, and again- we play this game,

And the same animals take form each time,

Their pieces coming together gradually

Except for the toucan, whose beak remains lost,

Like the brontosaurus tail in our other favourite jigsaw.


Time and time again, we fit them together,

Often your favourite animal is completed first-

The shiny orange fish-

Because I sometimes pretend not to see

When you move the wheel carefully

So it always falls on orange.


The shapes stay the same each day,

Yet I clap every time we finish;

You slotted everything in the right place

And you do it more and more by yourself each time!

I think that’s worth celebrating.


Our hardest jigsaw has 50 pieces

And stretches nearly as wide as the sofa.

Soon you won’t need my help with that,

So I’m happy to repeat, and repeat, and repeat,

Because if I look closely

Things are a little bit different every time.

Moving Day

That familiar screech: brown tape, wrapping around another box

Full of our plates, forks, and bowls,

Because for some reason the knives and spoons ended up in another box,

Which is now buried, stacked up in a heap.

Bubble wrap crinkles, creases, and pops,

As we wrap it around our glasses, small vases,

And that translucent frog ornament with the missing foot

Which you brought back from Costa Rica.

Motivational music plays, and I sip green tea from the kettle,

Still unpacked, as we squish clothes and pillows into cases,

Wonder where to put the shoes and plants,

And find my lost turquoise hair clip under the bed.

I have moved many, many times,

To the point that the rhythm is repeated, almost routine;

Yet this is the most excited I have ever been to move,

Because it will be just you and me!

New Addition

Your leaves were wilting a bit

And you looked thirsty,

Forgotten behind some reduced ornaments.

So I brought you home to my crowded windowsills,

Squished you in between a leaning aloe vera

And a greenish, pinkish succulent in a silver pot.


From here you can see me work at my computer

Or you can watch the people outside;

The rainy morning school runs,

The pensioners nipping to the post office,

The odd tightly-manoeuvred delivery van.


You can hear me typing,

Humming along to songs.

Sometimes the outside world seeps in

And strangers’ conversations will drift over us

To fly around the room.


I promise to look after you- to dust your leaves

And keep you watered.

If you grow a lot,

I’ll give you a new pot.

I hope when you feel better

You’ll show me your flowers.

But for now,

Rest well, and settle in.

Welcome home!

Mirror Image

Soft click of the door behind me and the party is outside,

I am inside, safe,

Running my hands under the taps

With thoughts running through my head;

Frantic, I try to sober up,

Staring in the mirror, a gentle glow around it.

My head throbs with the muffled beats of the music.

A face looks back at me, meeting my eyes,

And I know it is my own

But I do not recognise it.

The next morning, gazing into my dark cup of tea;

No milk- ran out, again-

A trembling face hides under ripples

Is that me?

Soup

Enveloped by fog, I feel partially blinded,

Bundled up under a soft scarf, fluffy coat and doubled up socks.

As I cross the bridge I see trees below as sentinels,

Raising their skeletal branches as the river tries to swallow them.

Plenty of people are out but their sounds are subdued, muffled;

Prams trundle by, paws pitter patter, my own boots clomp with a goal in mind:

The outdoor market, which has recently opened for the day.

Its gaudy gazebos come into sight through the fog, striped like circus tents,

Each stallholder crowing over each other about their inexpensive wares:

“Three pound for two raspberry punnets!”

“Lovely lemons, three for a pound, lemons, three for a pound!”

Tempting, but I’m here because I woke up with a winter craving

On my mind, and I’m heading towards the vegetables.


There are some shiny peppers and beautiful, fractal romanesco,

Yet what is on my mind is some tasty, heavy leeks

And a few red potatoes-aha!

Found them, and bought them- now the trek home

And for lunch I will have a delicious homemade soup.

With each mouthful the winter blues will melt away,

I’ll be cocooned in its comforting flavour.

I can hardly wait- but for now, I must hurry back.

Banana cake

This is a Serious Business

So we must tie our hair back

With the right sparkly scrunchies and hair bands,

Put on our aprons

And roll up our sleeves.

It’s time to bake!


The bananas are already waiting on the side,

Sweet, mushy and speckled with black.

Up on the chair so you can reach,

You’re my expert mixer, egg-cracker and butter slicer,

Your lips pursed in concentration as a batter takes shape.

But I see you licking the big wooden spoon!

We pour what has survived of the batter into a tin

Which slides into the oven-

And now we wait…


We have forty minutes until we can eat

This sugary satisfying treat

So let’s make a treasure map,

And follow the clues,

And make a paper chain with penguins on,

Then when we’re colouring in an elf

We might hear a satisfying BEEP

Meaning it won’t be long before we can pour some milk

And sink our teeth in!