Read The Weight of Water for Free Online Page A

like he can’t hear him,
    But we all can.
     
    Someone has smeared something red
    Across the window of the bus.
    It smells of tomato.
    It may have been a
    Piece of pizza.
     
    The woman next to me
    Keeps muttering to herself
    And laughing.
    The children at the back
     
    Shout at a passerby,
    Words in a mixing bowl.
     
    I ring the bell,
    A small red button
    On the metal post,
    And in my head a booming
    As I signal stop,
    And in my heart a bomb.
     
    When the driver slows
    And pulls over,
    I consider sitting back down
    Next to the muttering woman
    And the smeared window,
    And getting off at a different stop
    Where there’s nothing to unravel.
     
    And no answers to fear.

The Bungalow
     
    A woman opens the door
    To the squat house.
    She is wearing slippers
    And a pink dressing gown
    Though it is still light out.
     
    She is distracted by a noise inside,
    The sound of a small child crying.
    She turns away for a moment
    And then looks at me again.
     
    I tell her my name.
    And some of my story.
     
    She ushers me in:
    She wants me to meet the child
    And wait for Tata.

Cold Hot Chocolate
     
    I know the sound of Tata’s whistling.
    He’s over a block away
    When I hear him coming
    Carrying the melody.
     
    When he sees me
    He isn’t surprised – or pleased.
    And neither am I, yet I say,
    ‘I’ve found you, Tata!’
    A line I’ve practised for days.
    For months.
    Tata’s whistle I recognise,
    But I don’t recognise Tata.
     
    He has a weak beard
    Which stops him from smiling
    And he is thin.
     
    He looks at the woman
    Who says, ‘I know.’
    But what does she know?
     
    She takes the child upstairs
    And I hear crying –
    Coming from the woman,
    Not from the child.
     
    Tata leads me to the large kitchen
    And makes hot chocolate
    Using a clean, steel kettle.
    ‘It is hard thing to explain –
               to a child,’ he says
    Without looking at me
    To see how much I’ve grown.
     
    I don’t listen much.
    His little bee sting words
    Hurt.
     
    Tata peels an orange,
    The skin coming away
    In one expert movement
    Creating a bitter coil
    On the counter.
    He splits the orange in two,
    Rests one half before me,
    Eats the other half himself,
    Pips and all.
    Tata looks at the clock above the sink.
     
    The hot chocolate is untouched
    And cold
    In the cup.
     
    I am cold too
    So I stand to leave.
     
    ‘Will you come and see Mama?’ I ask.
    Tata looks at the clock again
    And says,
               In English,
                     ‘Eventually.’

Blame
     
    My stomach tightens into a rock
    Because I am so angry with Tata.
     
    Every time Mama looks at
    Her map on the wall –
    Every time Mama pulls on
    Her coat and walking shoes –
    Every time Mama opens up
    Her purse and frowns –
    Every time Mama comes to
    Bed and lies awake weeping.
     
    I am so angry that
    My stomach is a stone
    I wish I could throw at Tata.

A Letter I Never Send
     
    Tata,
     
    We came to Coventry to find you,
    Mama and me.
    We looked and looked.
     
    Now you know we are here
    I’m not looking,
    I’m waiting.
    I don’t want to wait and wait,
    what’s the point?
     
    Mama loves you again;
    she’s sorry.
    Can’t you be sorry too?
    Then we can go back to Babcia,
              back to Gdańsk,
              home.
    Please, Tata.
     
    Kasienka

The Bell Jar
     
    It was in the sixth-form section
               Of the library.
    I liked the fuchsia cover. I liked her name.
    Plath. A name like a heavy breath.
     
    And I read. Slowly I read. In English.
    About Plath’s desire to die.
     
    And I wonder if I could do that.
    I wonder if I could surrender.
     
    And take my last breaths
    Instead of living with a rock
    In my belly.

Skin Deep
     
    ‘She isn’t even pretty,’
               I tell Kanoro.
     
    We are shelling peas for dinner,
    Popping more into our mouths
    Than we put in the pan.
     
    ‘She isn’t as pretty as Mama,’
               I tell him.
     
    Kanoro isn’t surprised.
    He shakes his head.
     
    He