The Poetry Society

On Saturdays, my father would go the market to buy

breakfast. Morning call in the temple

of our house where the shriek

of the night train sounds, to collect the last

of the shadows. The breeze alighting, a travelled disciple

murmuring his prayers, I once was lost, but now

am found. At 6 am, we are all sinners cleansed

by the wash of dawn, barefoot and grateful.

My sister and I stumbling towards the smell

of food, tired from the pilgrimage in the dark. Then mother

would wipe the dust of sleep from our faces, so our

phlegmy eyes opened, slowly, newborn kittens shaking off

the terror of blindness, and rolling

down the stairs to be caught –

in the basket of my father’s arms. We wake

to the graduating light and repetition of soyabean milk being

stirred;

milk being stirred; being stirred, filled our mouths

with sweet steam, thick steam, gentle steam, filled our mouths

with gladness. In forgetting

and forgetting, forgot