"MY MOTHER HAS THE MOST PAGGRO METAPHORS", Low Kian Seh
“wake up, it is already noon;
the risen sun is illuminating
your ass” she says, back to
dark sky, koel in disagreement.
she force-feeds with rice by
the heap, recounting labour
she did not put in for harvest,
painting a picture of starving
Ethiopians I am letting down,
for she describes me equivalently
skin and bones, stuffing spare
tummy into my shorts barely
fitting. she has accused me
of murder: weapon, report book;
modus operandi, homicide by
anger. when cross-examined,
I am judged to might as well have
killed her myself, besides
disgracing forefathers who never
should have sailed here, now turn
in their graves. she transforms
into receptionist, whenever I check
in and out of this hotel named
home, and as trip advisor, suggests
an extended vacation at my friend’s
place instead — with luggage.
when I return, she will generously
round off my clock-in to midnight
while questioning her very existence:
if she falls at home and I am not around
to hear it, does she make a sound?
if I am not a doctor, is she even a mother?