∞
Dementophobia
——..go on and be crazy. – Jimi Hendrix
The ginger tea foams, floods the stove.
A blue flower-patterned plate falls on its face.
.
She, my mother, is here.
She comes with the rains,
.
steals the pieces of sunshine tucked under
my skin, sneaks in my ear, a lullaby:
.
I am in the bones like the ocean and the sea,
I am the sieve, the flour, sifted and sifting.
.
I blast the stereo, flood the bathtub.
She tugs at my wet curls, mine. I scrub my legs hard.
.
She traces her index finger down my nose, mine.
I hold my breath, go under.
.
But I cannot escape this ghost, her memory
plays like a movie on the bathroom ceiling:
.
The front porch of our house. Her blouse
crumpled on the red cement floor.
.
She shimmied like the mango tree fat with fruit.
Koté lézóm blancs? She asked passersby.
.
I’ve heard that our parents are our first potters,
can the created thing ever truly remake itself?
.
I flatten her into a starched white blouse and stiff skirt.
Fold her again and again into orange and red origami.
.
But she bursts open from those neat encasings, giggles.
She smashes a plate. Hands me a glass.
.
.
.
.
Lizard Tails
I eat Grandma’s flowers. The red spill of rose petals,
the oxalis flower dubbed bread and cheese.
.
I catch lizards, cut their tails off with a mud-stained
cutlass in the backyard. I want to know if it is true,
.
will their tails grow back?
..
And inside the house, Grandma slashes
at Mom: she has not put enough grease in my hair.
.
Their voices lock, grate against each other
in the somnolent afternoon air: You always…
.
pursued by, if you weren’t grown,
I would lash your mouth.
.
Fear burrows into my tummy,
I pull my knees towards my chin.
.
I betrayed Mom; nodded when Grandma said,
your mother ca’ comb your hair,
.
sat quietly between her knees, as she sloshed
African Pride in my scalp. Accepted the red
.
lollipop after. Last week they fought over
the cake and cola Grandma fed me.
.
I hear Grandma spring up from her chair,
her feet pound the cement floor.
.
Hand on her waist, she threatens with her finger.
Mom pulls herself to her full height, says, she’s my child.
.
I crush the petals of a hibiscus with a stone,
make perfume.
.
The door slams, Mom yells my name, a sharp
stone tearing at whatever softness is left between them.
.
∞
Catherine Esther Cowie is a 2017 Callaloo Writing Workshop graduate. Her work has appeared in Bird’s Thumb, Rock & Sling, and Forklift Ohio. Originally from the Caribbean island of St. Lucia, she currently resides in Kenosha, Wisconsin.