Aunty

The surgeon’s signature of scar,
The i.v. drip into your wrist
Deny completely what you are.
At home, my mother made a list
Of things like books, nightgown and comb.
We have to tell your children tales
Of when their mummy’s coming home.
I never saw you look so pale.

Like a rotten tooth, the doctors said.
Now you echo like an empty room.
Is it like being clean, is it like being dead
When the men of wisdom take away your womb?
The only thing a woman ever has, you knew:
You were never too young, you were never too old.
They’ve taken away your birthright, and you
The only one my mother told,

The only one my mother told.

(1988)