Adeosun Olamide

Thorns My Memory Art - Poem by Adeosun Olamide

The morning I threw her out,
My help,
She’s been there since I had the surgery’
I needed heal and time I was-
She had my baby to watch
I came home, to new colors,
All altered-
My Mohammed now a lover- flowers, music-
I sat in, a stranger in my home
Asked- what I would eat-
Led to my room-
I had my baby at least, I thought
Until I tried- breastfeeding her-
I forgot, I met the scars’
Rasheedat made the food
As held her still- in my embrace
In manner- was to be taken, but I unwilling-
She began cry,
Mohammed took her, lain her the cradle
My shadow over her there- yet she cried
And she did until Rasheedat came-
Until she heard her voice-
And in Rasheedat embrace, she beamed.
I smiled as my heart bled-
I couldn’t possibly love it-
In the many time, there was the repeat,
Hush, I am your mother, feel my warmth
But she was deaf to me in all my whispers-
I hated it, I began to- I did-
The nice little maid,
Rasheedat’ lovely and pretty too-
I spoke to Mohammed,
I am back; we no longer need her-
I am strong enough to do all she does- better
But- no’ he said- you rest my dear-
She is a nice girl’
I know Mohammed looks at her-
He takes me from the kitchen-
And once he screamed at me- forbade me there
He says- I cause my wound to long-
But they were excuses, excuses- I knew
The way’ Mohammed looks her-
And a night came, it woken my hatred-
She brings Mohammed his water-
I am there, she takes his suit-
Mohammed calls her, I am there- idle
Mohammed smiles eating her food-
Hardly finishes mine, the one made him-
They were the seeds, the feelings that thundered-
But my act the morning, God’ -save me
The remorse that wears me-
To throw her out, the dark- she pleaded
The baby cried as threw her out still
She knelt begging- for forgiveness
What she had done- I thought-
I asked; I asked her!
She only begged-
The bloods on my hand
The bloods on my sleeve
What I have done-
From the lanai, I threw her out-
I didn’t, I did- to save my family
Not the way- I wanted,
This guilt,
Why so does my conscience prick me?
Like I meant her a grave,
I didn’t- I only wanted her out-
She ran, she fell- death’
But first- I must cover her up-
The lies to Mohammed,
Hush my unyielding girl from wailing-
Yet the fear that art me- by still
That she be reason Mohammed came home,
Yet only by still-
For must before his return- clean the blood
And tell- she stole, ran away the night-
But how, how do I content this guilt
-The conscience that pricks me so?

Topic(s) of this poem: all

Comments about Thorns My Memory Art by Adeosun Olamide

  • Kpekot Egweteng (8/30/2015 6:45:00 PM)

    Was she dead? Well it is understandable when a husband gives more attention to the housemaid than his wife. Certainly the wife feels bad but this should not warrant any blood to be cleaned. This is a good poem that reveals the moral conflict in the subconsciousness. (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Sunday, August 30, 2015

Poem Edited: Sunday, August 30, 2015

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