Depth of Perception

scoot along — won’t you? 
descending on the rounded table tonight 
worry my lower lip
wait for the rapture to come in the form
of a she-thing: 婆婆 aims for the throat, my mother casts 
her eyes a second too long
on wherever the light catches 
my jaw working the cud 
sometimes the tops of my breasts  
and me, I go for a second serve
with all the trimmings 

with a teasing lilt;
words are not hard to swallow.
over time young women become whetstones  

maybe they can declare off the extra bits  
catch drips 
overhead

my face is the rose-cheeked mast 
my face it curdles like whey  

 cannot have a seat at the table where
 I  feel myself  sagging under the weight  
unto their wary-creased eye   
continue to wax and wane  

I do not like the name lazy susan 
for a spinning tray or my mother.
were we all useless daughters handed down? 
points docked for wear and tear
the defects shall inherit the earth
  

maybe it is because we are a stronghold of women 
that we feel inclined to take turns 
point  and prod at our fleshy centres
sink in teeth where we see fit
sanding down parts of ourselves threatening to spill

maybe  I would be airborne without a spine 
light to the touch
hear the clink of my wrist fine-boned  scraping the sides of 
 my gummy smile pot, meet belly! 

 I catch sight of the me
glint from the porcelain bowl
hunched over, 
my grip is tender on the hilt of the spoon 
I  funnel the grains of my yesteryears 
let them bloom unsaid, 
shuffling along
as I go 

no, thank you. my place is here