to be alone and lonely iv

sundays are for reconciliation.
sometimes a friend, a neighbour drops by
to kill the afternoon boredom or be the boredom

after 7 am morning mass, solitary and brief as can be,
you spend the day indoors, in bed
coming out only to snack, to host

perhaps to pacify your maternal instinct
for the babies you will never have with him
you tend the miniature cactus that sits still by the window sill

miniature cactus that awaits you all week long,
seated in that grey cold concrete planter
you DIYd with him

you still believe the things he said
words you swallowed hook, line and sinker

cheap bait for your affection

flung over the edge of the bed,
you know you’d take him back
despite photos of him and her strewn all over his Facebook

even in your childhood, sundays were for reconciliation.
your father reading the Gospel during jumuiya
your mother’s voice, right above his, filling the house as she led the hymns like in the choir

sunday, first day of the week clean slate;
last week’s fights, quarrels, insults
confessed, forgiven, forgotten

tucked under your mother’s beautiful dresses
right next to her bruises and sharp tongue
you, your brothers, your parents picture perfect as you recite the Rosary

jumuiya members close their eyes, to avert
the washed out wall stains
of blood, of food strewn across the wall courtesy of your father’s rage

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