My mother tells me that for years
she has kept a packed suitcase
in her car trunk, just in case
she had to leave urgently.
The square sky-blue leather suitcase
lay nudged against the spare wheel.
I ask what's inside? She unzips it,
and flips the top open.
There's a black and white picture
of my sister and I when we were
eight and six, wearing white,
matching vests and shorts,
my sister is crying and I
wear an afro with a side part.
There are four white Marks and Spencer,
size thirty two C bras, still in their box.
A smooth black leather copy of a New
Testament Bible, vacuum packed.
Two lemon scented candles
and an orange torch light.
A yellowed birth certificate and a marriage
certificate slightly torn where its creased.
An aquamarine toothbrush and one
dark maroon Fashion Fair lipstick.
A wooden hairbrush with stiff bristles.
An address book with her mother,
brothers and sisters addresses,
and numbers written in red.
Twenty white air mail envelopes
with red and blue striped borders.
and recycled brown writing paper
flecked with purple flowers petals.
This is all she needed.
Napolipoesia, 2001