TIME AFTER TIME
BY LATIFA SEKARINI

before i turned nine, all i wished for was pain.
i can't remember what kind,
but maybe the kind that came with fever dreams 
and grape-flavoured medicine.
i’m huddled in the back of the car,
all twisted and bent
and i can’t remember 
whether i’ve packed my math homework or not. 

but i remember my mother pacing 
up and down in front of her vanity
as she yelled at me,
waiting for me to recite my multiplication tables.
i remember she loved stalagmites
and hated her own children. 
judging by how she gave birth to monster after monster,
my mother's womb must have been sharp. 
edges threatening to cut you
the way tins of tuna might cut your finger open
you'll need an umbrella, mommy said. 

after i turned nine, my mother turned away.
i thought parents don’t get exit tickets
or hallway passes
but my parents did.
some people learned from heart to hearts
and homemade food,
but i learned from fur-lined diaries 
and cheap chicken buckets 
that mothers are made of marble,
but time is made of fissuring faces
and hiding places.

if you're lost, you can look and you will find me, 
sang cyndi lauper on the radio.
children get lost in time all the time,
but often parents end up finding god
instead of their children.
when time let me finally catch up,
turns out she’d never been looking at all.