BY VANEEZA JAWAD
“This poem was a result of moving out for university and the many sleepless nights full of real-estate reality TV that accompanied it. It was written in fragments and eventually turned into a long-form piece — as unwelcome feelings usually do. I am moving out but everything needs to be perfect. I am leaving but I must fill in the gaps left behind. This house made me small — and now this can be someone else’s. There is a resigned acceptance of the need to leave: there is nothing here. There could have been, but there isn’t. And that is fine. That turns into a knowing, almost panicky desperation to breaking the cycle of inheriting family trauma: my hands turned into my mother’s, but that is where it ends. This house will not be passed down to unsuspecting blood, it will be sold to the highest bidder. Willingly. ”
photo by Gohar Dashti
welcome to my home.
a gorgeous two bedroom and two
and a half bath affair. georgian barred windows and
an unused terrace garden. twenty years old and
all this could be yours. my hands aged into my mother’s
moving out
and in and out
again. don’t forget to fill in the contact sheet!
would you like a tart?
is the floor too steep?
here is where i make breakfast
alone at odd hours. on this counter i lay out
1 large cup – dried overnight on my bedside table
and 1 plate – (or bowl, plus more to taste)
as if they were made of cold
rain. like me
they hover over marble until they can be waved away
by a careless hand or two
or three into the sink too scared to drip.
they are mostly empty and make no sounds
and expect praise for it. i do not yield.
here is how i wipe down the counter when i am done.
in circles. i start on the outside and work my way in
like ants
around honey.
like draughts
that build up around me
when i sleep.
when i reach the eye
of the storm
i just wipe down
like that.
and it is done.
in the afternoon
i slink around the counter
and hook my finger against this lace curtain and pull back.
there is the lemon tree i did not plant
but sometimes water.
pass around this sheet.
maybe
if it feels kind
it will bend to let sunlight through this window.
warm rain will slide into our eyes and for a moment
my feet will touch the ground. my heel will meet the cold floor
and i will let it.
for a moment. the walls will be warm
and the storm will stop closing in. i will blink slowly.
i will hold sunlight in my hand and lace it through my fingers
and it will stick where my mother taught me how to pick my flesh off my bones
before i knew what love was.
maybe.
and now all this could be yours.
take this tart and watch the floor.
here.
here is where i could sleep if i stayed.
here is where i could think about holding love in my mouth
in the dark. where my tongue could wrap itself around low voices
while i let them smile just for me.
here
if i stay
is where i could carefully place my words on your tongue and
you could hold them as the birdbath holds the hummingbird and
you would love them as the hummingbird loves the honeysuckle the birdbath longs to touch.
and here
if i stay
we could become one for a moment
or two. and i would want more and more and more
and you would give
and give until i could trace every line in the crook of your arm with my eyes closed.
yes, this sheet.
but the lemon tree never bends.
it tells me it loves me too much.
and the floor is too steep.
so i bend instead. and now this could be yours.
would you like another tart? would you like this to be yours?
is the floor too steep? don’t forget to fill in the contact sheet!
is this too much? a tart? the floor? will you visit again?
will you?
will you?
won’t you?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Vaneeza is a student of social anthropology at the London School of Economics. She loves the sea, is indifferent to Virgos, and dabbles in poetry when she’s not interpreting birthcharts for strangers on the internet.