I can’t be with-child, I told them.
I’m a child; I’m only 3-years-old
You’re 43, they said. Besides, you already have one.
Oh, I said. Then,
I took my harmonica to my lips to play him a tune of lullabies.
“No, no”, they said, “he is a man of 18”.
Oh boy, how could I forget?
The child is 18, I’m 43, at the edge of a cliff, ready to jump off.
“Doesn’t it look like his shoulders?” I say, “broad and tan?”
Hanging on, I want to hang on on him, I love him, don’t I? A son of mine, 43, I do.
Remember the night you were conceived? The night that they entered me.
Mother was second in line, right after my groom. They entered me one by one,
ravaging every piece of me.
“We were, weren’t we, the night you were conceived”, I say, “happy,”. Oh, boy.
Me, lying flat, you, just about to happen, oh, boy o boy.
No, I can’t be with-child, don’t you see?
Granny says: Yes! no!
Mother says: No! yes!
He says, – he, your father – “Ladies, allow me to handle this”.
Looking at you, conceived at that split second, mother says, “Yes, he does handle things rather well”.
The child is 18
I’m 43
My throat is sore
The child is sweet
I’ve got to fall
My mind’s a jumble
Her hands with rough nails
Caressed my insides
Mother is ugly
I am 43
The child is 18
I love him so much
Aren’t his shoulders astonishing..
Or the small of his back?
Even though you’re sweet, my child, don’t you see, my throat is sore.
There is a wound up here
There is a wound down here
Saghi Ghahraman 2001