sometimes i think about my friend elsa who jumped off the factory chimney
at the age of nine
it seemed too young of an age to die
scalp smashed and brain scattered
her blood left a pattern on the pavement it said
save me
sometimes i think about my big brother
looking happy, with a kind, loving husband
and an adopted daughter on the way
almost finished with the administration
i’d never seen him so happy, looking ten years younger
as if he hadn’t just come back from the war a year prior with a missing limb
the message arrived at our doorstep at four in the morning
(“who would call at such a time?” he grumbled as he picked up his crutch and limped downstairs. i fumbled with my teddy bear, somewhat anxious)
his husband died, run over by a carriage
my big brother joined him a month later
sometimes i think about my mom
the strongest and strangest person i know who
had survived both the battlefield and slavery that had bounded her almost half her life
a survivor, a fighter, torn between a war and a household she could barely keep ahold of
she hugged me when i cried and slapped me when i told her to get lost
she was a woman i always and never strived to become, a mother
whom i hated, and loathed, and lashed out at
as often as i left that cramped flat once called home
she died of tuberculosis, good riddance
but i could never write that in her tombstone:
here lies a mother
whose life had been wasted on a daughter born out of wedlock
whose name she couldn’t even remember
a child from a client who had beaten her to near death
merely alive thanks to three unsuccessful attempts at abortion
here lies a nurse and a prostitute
two identities she’d never separated
sometimes i think about my little sister
the smartest in our family
who raised questions at the silliest things
who gave me her fair share of dinner when my mother threw me out to the street and told me to never come back, i yelled get lost and she slammed the door
who hugged me over the litter of needle marks on my arms
who sang me to sleep with her soothing, out of tune voice
whom i swore to protect with all my life
away from my drunken bastard of a father and wretch of a mother
“you’re too good to me” and she asked me why i cried and gave me a loaf of bread
enough to last me until morning
she died of blood loss in a filthy alley surrounded by trash and dirt
blood oozing from her vagina
innocent soul raped, clubbed, stabbed with a knife by the drunkard of a father
who died of blood loss
or maybe it was the mutilation
and no one would stop me from relishing the weight of the sack
and the boat floor soaked up with blood and
his remnants, diced-up bodies somewhere deep in the ocean
the piranhas would have a field day
sometimes i think about my teacher who taught me
to read and write and tell the weather
it would be useful someday she said
creases and lines all over her face
an old woman of wisdom, of kindness, of warmth
taught me how to do simple maths, get more ransom, avoid stray bullets from a gun drunkenly pointed
years of experience had taught her the rules of survival
she bestowed upon me for which i was forever grateful
she died of a stray bullet
the tiny store upon which she made a living robbed and ransacked
old books, broken records, few knick-knacks a mess on the floor
a bullet through and through
her wisdom and knowledge now a monument on the windowsill
no one came to her funeral
sometimes i think about the soul who left my body two years ago
hung by a rope, neck snapped by the momentum
tired of the amount of drugs taken over the years
syringes and needle marks, jumping from one overdose to another
lungs cancer, smoking three packs a day, sometimes four
stranglers on the street, serial rapist and killer roaming the city
teachers in the grave, buried two feet under the ground
early grave had had never sounded so beautiful,
i took the opportunity.