The wife of the wolf

Honestly, if ever you told me that there is no shepherd to lead me, with no dog barking at me constantly for heading the wrong way I would have signed up straight away for being the fucking wife of the wolf. Give me exuberant long nails, fur coats and tiger prints. Give me perfect brushing, breakfast at 6am and pilates. Give me Carmela S. vibes. If ever I live in a burrow again, pour dirty boiling water in it every night. I want to live in the woods, feeding my children raw rabbit and shit. 

Sunday, I might go to the seaside, to cure to my anger in salt. The only cooking the wife of the wolf will do. 

They put a sign
Do no enter
Below the pull-up bar
That I tried so many time – before my finger was trapped in your door

It’s not their fault
If their fingers were trapped too
Mercury might have been retrograde
For three decades

I would wake up in the middle of the night to sit beside their bed
Despite the Emergency Room theme song on Sundays
Despite the darkness of the room
Despite mum being next door

I would listen until they tell me Donald is coming to my birthday party
I would listen until they tell me to spare the rocket
I would listen until they tell me a trip to the Bermuda Triangle is planned

Les billes

Roulent roulent, roulent les billes

dans mes mains elles se réchauffent

malgré le froid qu’elles repandent en moi

Fragiles, douces, gentilles, 

elles te giflent en plein visage

comme après une main baladeuse

un 14 juillet sur les bords de Seine

Je promets je peux aussi frapper 

les hommes qui le méritent

Je suis désolée je n’étais pas là

quand tu en avais besoin

Roulent roulent, roulent les billes

sur le sol, le tapis et sous les meubles

avec mon père comme seul témoin

Je pourrais les mâcher comme de la mâche

avec une vinaigrette aigre douce

En faire de la poudre de verre 

à rejoindre le cosmos

à briller à midi

à garnir une margarita

à t’en faire mal aux mains 

à saigner des gencives

Roulent roulent, roulent les billes

Je vais la ranger – la tienne – 

dans un pochon de velours

comme mon chien euthanasié une nuit d’hiver

et la polir 

comme une antiquité égyptienne 

volée par Sir Joan Soane 

You were my Autumn, and he was my Winter

I dashed him because Winter is too frigid

I hope to bring you into Spring where I

can flourish and blossom once more

And your decaying leaves can turned alive

on the tip of the branches where I

can soothingly witness you grown again

I missed you,

but I missed myself even more

I’m ready for another year.

The day I saw Lilly Allen’s back in Angel, Islington

It was defo a day of shelling borlotti beans in a 4 liters container on the terrace of a neighborhood restaurant with the red haired chef. Sat on the squeaky bench with those lovely pink and white little chubby pillows. In the open kitchen the pig’s head was already being braised for hours with its garnish. Upstairs the wilted flowers needed a change. I would ask my favourite member of staff named after a warm season to do it when she arrives. We went back inside to get ready for dinner service and I was playing with table 10 and 11 while the night was falling in the street. But suddenly he eagerly shouted ‘ That’s Lilly Allen!’ and by the time we proceeded outside, I saw a girl with a long back braid walking away on my right with a female friend. Who knows if it was actually Lilly Allen. Nevertheless I will always pretend I saw Lilly Allen’s back, at nightfall, in Angel, Islington. Because why not. It’s only fair.

No smooth, no smooth, one son

Classic time in a mandir in the middle of Bangkok. After being sandwiched between the driver and my then boyfriend on a motorbike. The incense, the mantras, the shoes at the entrance. Forget the joss sticks, it was the wooden one that were important. In a pot. To spill on the floor. I picked up a pot, encouraged by my friend. I turned it upside down and threw its Mikado shaped content at my feet. And I waited. I think I even laughed nervously. I heard someone speaking to me in Thai. And I waited, again. But my friend did not translate. Then nothing. We went for lunch next door. It was bright. It was bright and my friend was still silent. I grew uncomfortable. Or uncompfortable as I say. She was named after a bread. My friend I mean. The one you like to dip in a paneer korma. The bread I mean. Anyway, she did not say a word. Finally, after twenty minutes of pretending that we never went to a temple, she told me what they said over my twigs. She said ‘no smooth, no smooth, one son’. To this day I wonder if there is anything else she had not translated to me. But to this day they were right. It’s clearly, no smooth, no smooth. Twice.

8 years being there. In that country. It means a lot. And so little. At the same time. People don’t get it. It’s only eight years. I have been here longer. But yeh. 8 years of my existence. Here. In England. I would expect a firework. An acknowledgment. A kiss on the cheek. A bravo. I would expect everyone to stop and congratulate me. I have done fucking 8 years in a country that is not mine. A language that is not mine. I hate it. I hate it so much you have no idea. And at the same time I’m drawn to it. It’s home. It will always be home. I’m an immigrant. Even if I’m white. I’m not an expat. I am an immigrant. I don’t belong here. But I don’t belong anywhere. I belong to the place I call home. And this is home. And it will always be home.