How much of what
We talk
Is not for the lover
But the father
Who listens
Through the phone?
He calls me
By my brother’s name.
Why did I always
Do worse
After his criticism
Than better?
Listen? He never listened.
His ears were
Too big for his head.
Mother cooked safe
Things—boiled eggs,
Buttered toast, Sanka with milk.
I rebel by killing me
A little at a time.
There was a time
(The 60s, I think)
When all I was
Was a peanut on legs.
I am the same legume,
Only smaller,
Craving love
After years of chaos.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem