one morning, you tapped me.
‘Wake up,’ you said, ‘it’s time to be an adult’
i scrambled around the room, searching:
a piece of cloth to hide my breasts
fur to stop the flow
‘You’re fine now,’ you said,
your smile leading me on to the world
but Mama, you lied
my covered breasts did not stop them
the fur did not stop the flow
they poked at me everywhere
and on the bus, my breasts were their armrests
‘Stop wiggling your waist,’
you warned, Mama
‘Take off the skimpy clothes. Yes, more furs. You’re fine now’
but Mama, you lied
i scurried to the store,
draped in a long veil
they came, dragging its sides
ravenous eyes feeding on my bare skin
‘night is for the wolves,’
Mama, you said,
‘buy furs in the day’
but Mama you lied
the sun spread its arms
i wore a sack
my skin burning inside
i hid my hair under your old wrapper
and smelt of fear and shame
yet they came
their eyes on my face
i turned and ran
the sack – too long
my feet – too slow
and i fell, Mama.