Father, you forgot to teach me
how to ride a bicycle.
Wonder why I remembered now,
say; yesterday I found out
seven months from now I’ll have
a little one, and all I could think of
was not that the father will teach
but how mine never did,
what I’ll say if ever those innocent eyes
looked at me expecting.
Mother, your scoldings still ring.
I touched my flat belly,
caught a lump in my throat.
Whatever was I to you woman,
rascal, unruly, dare devil?
but mine feels fragile, like I would
raise my voice and it’ll never hear again.
Perhaps I was made of your shell and
one like yours whereas mine
will be dragged here and there
for belonging to two.
The father you see, is one of fair skin.
Then my life lessons are outdated,
where do you think
I’ll hold my child at/to?
Tell me now before they’re kicking…
You know, my dearest parents
This state has rooted me in reminiscing,
like what I used to eat,
where I went to sleep,
and whom I ran to crying.
It’s remarkable how neither of you
seem to hold any of those titles.
Have I grown too big to remember?
I am yours, am I not?
Mother, you were gentle in my sleep.
Father, I ran to you from living.
Should I carry on this legacy?
Little one, I’m skittish who knows not to forget.
Often I’ll hold you too tightly,
if you can’t cry from my smothering,
lift your tiny hand to my cheek;
when tears fall from my failing that time,
I’ll place you where my heart is king.
I placed my hand on my flat belly,
somehow it felt I’ll live again.
Sia Morweng is an emerging poet. She writes a blog called That Gut Wrenching Poetry, where she puts all her undiluted thoughts, fiction and music that she loves. She says, “What I want to do is write poetry in how we speak and turn how we speak into a melodramatic consequence.”