scoot along — won’t you? 

descending on the rounded table tonight 

worry my lower lip

wait for the rapture to come in the form

of a she-thing: 婆婆 aims for the throat, my mother casts 

her eyes a second too long

on wherever the light catches 

my jaw working the cud 

sometimes the tops of my breasts  

and me, I go for a second serve

with all the trimmings 

​

with a teasing lilt;

words are not hard to swallow.

over time young women become whetstones  

maybe they can declare off the extra bits  

 catch drips 

overhead

 

my face is the rose-cheeked mast 

my face it curdles like whey  

 

 cannot have a seat at the table where

 I  feel myself  sagging under the weight  

unto their wary-creased eye   

continue to wax and wane  

 

I do not like the name lazy susan 

for a spinning tray or my mother.

were we all useless daughters handed down? 

points docked for wear and tear

the defects shall inherit the earth  

 

maybe it is because we are a stronghold of women 

that we feel inclined to take turns 

point  and prod at our fleshy centres

sink in teeth where we see fit

sanding down parts of ourselves       threatening to spill

 

maybe  I would be airborne without a spine 

light to the touch

hear the clink of my wrist fine-boned         scraping the sides of 

            my gummy smile           pot, meet belly! 

 

 I catch sight of the me

glint from the porcelain bowl

hunched over, 

my grip is tender on the hilt of the spoon 

I  funnel the grains of my yesteryears 

let them bloom unsaid, 

shuffling along

as I go 

no, thank you.      my place is here