written by kat chua
And the child draws another inscrutable house.
She sings the songs of lecture
Guilt ridden
Gossipy-manipulative.
The child draws
Her on a pedestal
Like the statue of liberty.
That grandmother, my grandmother
Stewed scents of memories
Forgotten by choice
By circumstance.
I am a child who knows
No better.
With every pot and pan
Every
Stir and sip
My grandmother tells made-up tales
Of how she�d like me to
Remember the scents of my own
Memories forgotten.
All that I heard in the kitchen,
Every taste had in that kitchen,
My grandmother�s kitchen,
Although I believed
With instinct that they were lies,
I believed them.
I had to.
I believed her,
How could I not?
�She is your grandmother, who sing by the stove.�
�Right� she is my grandmother.
Her word is law.
Her word is God.
She is infallible.
I learned.
I wore.
I ate.
I drew.
I swallowed.
This lie.
Until I saw,
I felt,
I smelled,
I heard,
I hurt,
I broke (shattered),
I can no longer
Differentiate between the truth and the untruth.
I am no longer a child.
My houses are no longer inscrutable.