Dwellings
Mama rented a room
In Coventry.
This is where we'll live
Until we find Tata:
One room on the fourth floor
Of a crumbling building
That reminds me of history class,
Reminds me of black and white photographs
Of bombed
out
villages.
There is a white kitchen in the room,
In the corner,
And one big bed,
Lumpy in the middle
Like a cold pierogi
For Mama and me to share.
'It's just one room,' I say,
When what I mean is
We can't live here.
'It's called a studio,'
Mama tells me,
As though a word
Can change the truth.
Mama stands by the dirty window
With her back to me
Looking out at the droning traffic,
The Coventry Ring Road
Then she marches to the kitchen and
Plugs in the small electric kettle.
She boils the water
Twice,
And makes two mugs of tea.
One for her,
One for me.
'Like home,' she says,
Supping the tea,
Staring into its blackness.
Mam found the perfect home for
A cast-off laundry bag.
Yes.
But not a home for us.
YOU ARE READING
The Weight of Water
PoetryThis is not my story. This is an actual book written by Sarah Crossan. All rights go to her. Armed with a suitcase and an old laundry bag, Kasienka and her mother head for England. Life is lonely for Kasienka. At home, her mother's heart is brea...
