Mother stinks of blood & bleach. Eggs
& antiseptic. Grease & dish-soap.
Yank out + gut the child: thin, pink lemon slices.
Wipe the snot & froth & hold for applause.
Noose of braid. Thwack! Cockroach guts smear
dingy tiles. Sun & oil freckle the wall. Hair clots
on the floor. “I’m not going to be my mother.”
What a fucking joke. Here’s a bald fact:
You’re as yellow as the melons around you. Here’s
a pile of meat, sir, to wife. Here’s your order.
What good is a mind? Put it in the oven. Hit it
with a shoe. Set it on fire. Mail it back to god.
By Maham K
Maham K is a poet, artist & medical student from Karachi, Pakistan. She has been published by Indige Zine, Berry Magazine, Soliloquie Magazine, and Luna Rio Zine.