All Day Breakfast, the first meal I have when
I return to the United Kingdom.
It is my fourth year leaving my hometown.
I prioritize the fried tomatoes,
Reluctantly. Gulping them down my throat.
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When we scooted off from the elite entrance of St. Joseph’s Primary School,
Not using tissues to rub her eyes.
As if Mum could gradually bear
Such grades. We all had tacit consent not to quarrel
While Dad was driving us home, bypassing
A hushed carnival
As crows cawed and ruffled their feathers up on the roller coaster.
Crouching and facepalming until they finished
Counselling me and scrawling their parents’ signatures on the transcript,
The spontaneous postures.
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For they used to grip the edges of the scorching bowls of soup,
For they used to knead the dough and imitate Jamie Oliver,
Sprinkling herbs and thymes over a Tesco-like pizza.
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