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Family by Batia Efrat

Batia Efrat | June 5th, 2018 | poetry | No Comments

Poem

My mother’s embrace,
the familiar scent
of patchouli and sandalwood.
Soft and warm
in a cold, dark world
– the only place
I’ve ever felt safe…
and vegetable soup,
my Grandmother’s recipe,
the fullness of a house
noisy with chatter.
Smudges of paint,
napkins containing poetry,
astrology notes,
childlike illustrations,
faded photographs
in black and white.
An old dressing table mirror
I gazed in growing up,
feeling like I never would.
A broken bronze lamp
resembling a woman
reaching out for something
– nobody knows what.
A turquoise couch
that used to be orange.
Dolls made of rope and rags
and salvaged things
whose marble eyes watch
and frighten visitors
with ill intentions.
The sound of two guitars
playing in unison.
A feeling of wholeness,
as if I belong.

Poet Bio

Batia is a writer of many things, poetry being her favourite. Her themes delve into the messiness of the human condition which is reflected through her unstructured but rhythmic style.

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