And then my father blows her face; she patches up
the news so that neighbours won’t be aware. And then
she knits a thatch and patches up our rainy roof, her collarbones
spread out like wires connected to two different buildings.

And then my father congests his face with a frown, says
her food smells like a shoe polish, pours the food to his silly dog.
And then she folds a piece of cotton wool and patches up my
wounded leg, where toilet flies celebrate Christmas.

And then my father sprinkles petrol on her blouse; a lighter burns
the experiment, my mother hovering like a mouse pointer.
And then she downs her daily pills, her eyeballs puffy as pumpkins,
to patch up her bleeding liver and seared heart.

And then she sets up her sewing machine and stitches all our torn
pillows, patching up our mattresses as if her time has never been hurt.
And then my father breaks her purse, breaks my piggybank to go shopping
for counterfeit concubines and cartons of Rothmans and B&H and Marlboro.

And then she bends to patch the boils between my father’s thighs,
to keep their wedding rings ably patched up. And then she snatches
a wooden hoe, whistling a burial song, to patch up the cracked portions
of our backyard garden, the tomatoes ripe like donated blood.