The Exchange

photocredit- Adrian McDonald

Immediately Father said

“i give out your hand in marriage”,

was when I knew I had been sold out.

The ribbon in my hands felt tight like a clutch.

“I bless you into marriage” was a word too strange to say.

There was the mortar to pound my anguish,

the grinding stone to mill my pain into dust,

the one I would use as powder or herbal tea.

The pot to cook myself in every time he needed something

or somebody hot.

Father had taken back the money he spent on me,

mother had done same.

Youth and elders were not left out.

There I was, the little fish in the pond

the people’s visa to eternal wealth

I am my father’s cheque to a new car,

my mother’s excuse for the new hi-target,

my brother’s collateral for fees,

my friends new eatery,

I am my own suicide.