Scene by Sogol Sur


He smokes weed, more and more, leftover from last night and the day before, 
reveling in the thought of the lies to his mother about quitting,
relishing the look of disbelief on her foundationed face.

Her foundation is soft, and smells like a damp garden. 
The boy looks in the mirror and

He wears his 17-year-old innocence on his face over the powder.
On his bones, there is a dress
as pink as the orgasmic embarrassment on his cheeks.

His dark locks, a chaotic black river
on his pale face.
His naked feet fidgeting in the sunlight pouring from the ajar window.

This is an old English town where the sun 
is the only gift 
to be treasured.

And his mother who teaches history at school
to boys and girls like him and to black and immigrant kids, too
will be home soon. 

He drinks his sizzling soup
and licks his lips clean from its orange red drops
then brushes his teeth with his mother’s perfume. 

He has never been so pleased with his father’s death.
A dull professor. Sexless too – according to his mother. 
His heart is a flying stone, too heavy and dynamic to wait.

He washes the dirty dishes to kill the thirsty seconds
then rinses his delicate hands under hot water 
his skin burns like the thought of sin.

He stares at his mother’s soup, slowly boiling 
– a dark secret about to burst open, a delicious wound.
She is always hungry after school. 

He looks in the mirror and blushes, 
stroking his soft lips with his mother’s pink lipstick, and suddenly 
the door opens. 

His mother is back at last.
Gazing at his image in the mirror, her blue eyes are beads of ice. 
Her bag, matte black leather, a true animal rights activist’s bag.

Her boy pulls up his frilly pink skirt, offering his toned white bum, pleading with her:
‘Fuck me, mummy.

Sogol Sur is the author of the poetry collection Sorrows of the Sun (Skyscraper, 2017). She just completed a PhD in Literature and Creative Writing, exploring queerness through a postcolonial lens.

Buy the book - Sorrows of the Sun

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