You look upset today Mama.
And I know why.
Do you want to hop on a time machine?
To get an abortion? A ligation?
Or a mere adoption if you feel forgiving?
Your brows, like two itchy bristly
black caterpillars writhed and met
as you tried to burn a hole
through my report card with your glare
and set me aflame.
But then you didn’t like the poem
I wrote for you as appeasement
For it used such apt metaphor
for your black-dyed hair that sparkles with dandruff
that outshines the star-sprinkled night.
You shouted at me, Mama, and I comforted myself
with the thought of your head
your sparkly flaked head shaking vigorously,
showering down bits of fake snow on the floor.
And you won’t have anyone to sweep after your mess,
but yourself, Mama.
Prescilla Dorado studies writing at UP Mindanao.