Agoloso Presents - Atondido Stories Agoloso Presents - Mama Mada | Page 237
Mama Mada
wasn’t their fault. It was nobody’s fault. It
happened because I was still. The moon
sung something he couldn’t hear. The birds
in my heart silent for a year in the dark.
This is the way it is now, asking
for nothing but to forget his name, a stone
that I carry. It cools in my mouth in the dark
and the moon sails on overhead. You ask
about birds, but all I can think of is stones.
My Father’s Room by Yvo nne G re e n
My father had an attic room where he d id his bo o k s
when he wasn’t there I used to go and look.
There were scraps of paper torn off spiral pads;
auction house catalogues, text circled, pages dog eared,
reserve prices marked in code; a hard folding chair;
a splintered trestle table and always the smell of him.
Next to his room was a room full of books and bookcases;
books in them, on them and on the floor (my dictionary
a tiny Laro usse covered in brown paper was my father’s
from prison camp).
I never sat in the book room when my father was there
I was afraid of him and anyway we weren’t allowed
when he was co ncentrating. He hated d o ing his bo o k s
but I think he liked being alone. I’d visit after he’d gone
as a way to be near him. Then I went to the book room
where so many abandoned stories gathered dust
until I opened them, powdering the tips of my fingers.
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