The Weight of Water by Sarah Crossan

Noise
     
    There are nasty people in our building.
    Mama tells me not to talk to
               Anyone,
    Or look at
               Anyone,
    Especially when she’s at work.
     
    If they stop me on the stairs,
    Or try to get into the room,
    I’m to pretend I don’t speak English
    ‘Because there are nasty people here.’
     
    They are not English people.
    English people do not live in this building –
    It could not be home for them
    Because they wouldn’t fit here,
    In a place infested with aliens.
     
    Sometimes we hear children squalling
    And small dogs barking,
    Then yelping and whining
    Long into the night.
    A man shouts:
              MUTT. MUTT .
    And I wonder if he is shouting
    At a dog or a child.
     
    One night a barbarian knocks
    When Mama is singing.
               Her eyes are shut
               And she jumps
               When the pounding fist
               Thunders against the door.
     
    ‘No noises!’ he shouts.
    ‘Against rules here!’
    Mama storms to the door,
    Opens it brandishing her sheet music –
    The Barber of Seville –
    To prove her singing
    Isn’t noise.
    ‘Against house rules!’
    The man shouts again,
               His face a knot.
     
    Mama gasps,
    Presses a hand to her heart
    And bangs the door
                                  shut.
     
    She isn’t afraid of him,
               As I am;
               She’s shaken
               By his ignorance.
    ‘No noises,’ she repeats quietly.
     
    As Mama starts to put away
    The sheet music
    I say,
               ‘No, Mama, sing quietly.
               For me.’
     
    And I sit up on the kitchen counter
    To hear her soaring Rosina,
    And remember Mama as she was,
    Poised and powerful,
    Lungs that could cut glass.
    Before Tata left.
    Before Coventry.
     
    We hear nasty people every night
    Cursing Christ and
               All the Saints In Heaven.
    Mama blesses herself,
    Showers the room in holy water
    And insists I say my prayers,
    Which I do,
    Hiding underneath the feather duvet
    Hoping God will hear me
    Here
    In Coventry.

Before England
     
    Mama pitched a coffee cup
               At the wall.
    Tata shouted:
    ‘Are you crazy?
    Are you? Crazy!’
     
    Babcia picked up the pieces
    As usual,
    And mopped up the coffee.
     
    Mama stamped her way
    To the pantry to
               Knead dough.
     
    Tata turned up the television.
     
    I had two parents then,
    But I couldn’t be in two places,
    So I sat with Babcia,
    Away from them both.
     
    Mama showed me the note from Tata
    The day he disappeared.
     
    Ola, I have gone to England
     
    Is all he wrote.
     
    I got no note.
     
    And no mention in the one to Mama.
     
    Mama cried for two whole years.
    And Babcia held her all this time.
    I didn’t cry, even though Tata forgot me,
    Even though I had a right to cry.
     
    Babcia said, ‘He didn’t leave you, Kasienka,’
    Which was a lie.
     
    Because he didn’t take me with him.
     
    She just meant, Behave yourself –
    I’m dealing with your mother.
     
    Then a cheque came from Tata,
    In an envelope
    With a clear postmark.
    And Mama knew what to do.
     
    Now we share a damp bed
    In a strange place.
     
    Mama is still crying.
    But Babcia isn’t here to hold her.
    And my arms are too short for the job.

Rain
     
    It rains relentlessly.
     
               Rain
               Rain
               Rain.
                               All.
                               Day.
                               Long.
     
    It is in my knuckles and my knees –
    The damp.
     
    And I’ve no galoshes
    Or welly boots to wear.
    So I wear my snow boots to school
    To keep my feet dry.
     
    The other children stare.
     
    But I don’t care.
     
               At least my feet are dry.
     
     
    Mama says, ‘Don’t worry, Kasienka,
    They have summers here too.’
     
    But I don’t know
    About that.

Swimming
     
    Mama pays,
    Reluctantly:
    Presses two