Poetry by Caitlyn Costa
With one eye, you watch
your husband’s feet arrive at the bed
three hours late. Turning
on your side, there is no couch for him
to retreat to. Your pain cracks
linoleum, rots wintermelon
on the vine. Three girls
to raise on egg and peanut butter
sandwiches, the youngest complained
so you sent her to bed
hungry. What do they know
of starving, of reed girls wasting
in the field, of congee,
more water than rice, of bones
sucked dry, never tasting
flesh? Your children’s children
know less—in plastic tubs you rinse
soap from their fragile eyes. Granddaughters
too smart and too dumb (you were the last
to hear about the boy she had with the gwailou).
You don’t pray but on the phone with aunties,
ai yah echoed sighs. Once, you rubbed
cream on her cracked hands. Toronto winters
still surprise you. In a month,
ceremonies must be done for the boy
who you don’t pray will grow up smart
and put meat on the table and come to bed
solid and whole and smelling like himself.
