Nothing distinctive distinguishes our lineage.
There are no tangible heirlooms to honour and pass down
No folklore, no traditions, no silly anecdotes
No accounts of valiant men fighting the first war of independence
Or any subsequent ones, really
Emancipation is not a concept we're familiar with.
Well, there is one story
I'm blanking on the details;
I'm sure my mother could quote it verbatim
Ages ago, my grandmother's great-grandmother
Witnessed a bush catch fire and die, and thought no more of it—
She turned her back to a forest ablaze.
The forest was sacred; it unleashed something ungodly—
I've seen it with my own eyes
Mother considers it as something holy, still
All our forefathers have preserved it well—
Collective trauma, unfulfilled desires—
They've clutched it in their iron fist.
Moral policing, constant surveillance,
Preaching God's will incessantly.
Sanctioned asphyxiation is child's play, elementary
We're taught early; we're taught well.
No display of affection, complete indifference,
Cruelty begetting cruelty.
Our bodies know nothing about crescendo, diminuendo
Though mother was a singer once—before she was silenced—
Before the fumes from the fire took hold of her lungs
There is no music, it said
There is only monotone
There is no room for emotion.
Every room in the house is filled to the brim,
Flooding over with unwept tears.
Scattered around haphazardly, floating with no restraint,
Are shoes too big to fill, pearls too heavy to carry.
My sister doesn't see it that way
She handles things with grace.
I've been the black sheep, the anomaly,
The wet dog stinking up the house
Gouging and biting back,
Weeping, wailing, screams ricocheting off the walls
Swollen throat and severed hands
Scarlet screeches of agony.
But then, my darling, the guilt began to settle in.
Look— it makes itself at home right in my chest
It lingers; it festers like a gunshot wound
It turns my body into a cemetery,
Into a chamber for cryo-conservation,
I carry my aunt's sadness and echo my mother's beliefs.
The family curse reverberates in my bones—
A constant reminder of our roots—
You, too, will throw up dead flies yet chant the same prayers as your ancestors
Honey, I have spent the entirety of my life under my mother's roof,
Please believe me when I say this
There is no scope for resistance or revolution.
There are days, still,
When I want to take a chainsaw to the family tree,
Put an end to the supply of kerosene
Let the bushfire die with me
But I am my mother's daughter; you are mine
We're fools to expect an alternative ending.