The old woman behind the pharmacy counter
passes forward a brown paper packet, her
shrivelled hands mottled, liver-spotted;
the accusatory, tight-lipped mien pronounces,
You young women destroy your health.
Listen Ouma, you're tempted to explain,
you don't know the half of it.
Instead, you smile, fade to nothing,
concentrate on crackling paper, your fingers
fidgety, thin-skinned animals.
Consecrated capsule on outstretched tongue,
squatting in a darkened room, you receive
the Holy Sacrament for Hungry Girls;
a private Eucharist to appease
your bare boned God of Reduction.
Give me this day my daily resolve,
the grace not to let a single morsel
pass through these lips,
amen.
After mass, spiritual ebullience: dry mouth
dizziness jaw-clenching palpitations…
Clutching the rosary of your martyrdom,
speedy strong in occult absolution,
you shrug with the insouciance
of the pardoned penitent;
every true believer pays a price.
The suitable girl is not temperamental,
does not throw tantrums, have rages
in public places,
or swear.
She does not take drugs or
stay out late, she is the daughter
of family friends.
She does not 'phone you drunk
in the middle of the night or ignore
your calls, she does not
make you happy.