Author: Nataliya Deleva

People often ask me where I come from – 

since different cultures entwine in my face, 

since my accent does not sound familiar, 

since my olive skin utters otherness, 

not quite grasping my emptiness 

when they make me feel unaccepted, 

just because I don’t always act as expected – 

like my sense of humour, which I wear 

like a dress a few sizes bigger. 

But they don’t know that my home 

is not some distant place 

where I was born, 

a land, or a political concept 

that has spat me out years ago. 

But home 

is where I feel local to – 

the veggie market in Walthamstow; 

the friends I’ve accumulated over time – 

like those magnets on the fridge 

people get from their trips; my neighbour 

bringing me a handful of cherries 

(the warm feeling that gesture carries); 

the Sunday lunch at Hornbeam café, 

or the chat with other parents while our kids play ballet. 

It’s all of that, and so much more – 

the feeling of local: that’s where I come from. 

Child Protection, how can I help? Hello?… Hello?  

Is there anyone on the line?… Hell-oh?  

Silence. The voice sunk down and  

left you – 

alone.  

Shaking. Sniffing 

your own helplessness, your 

own fear of tomorrow. No hope.  

Unless someone hears your voiceless  

screaming, 

your rage, your  

motionless kicking. Unless  

someone finds you in the corner of 

your existence – barefoot, chin tucked into knees, 

waiting 

for your father to  

return from work, to grab you  

by the hair, to pull, push, breathe  

the same air you do. Breathe into your neck 

when 

lying in bed, eyes open, legs 

spread, his body leaves traces all over you, 

all over your thirteen-year old mind, (mind the 

corner of the bedside table). Leaving you in despair, then 

Moving on 

With his own things 

to do – watch telly, eat dinner,  

fuck your mum.  I see you. I am you, only 

twenty years older, still there, in the corner, knowing 

Nothing 

but to hate. To wait 

for things to pass. To give 

way to those that seem stronger. To 

keep things in the locker, keep a secret. Unless 

we go back there, hand in hand, and change  

the past. Unless you make that call, raise  

your voice and speak up. For you.  

For me. For all the girls. 

Hello? 

My childhood days passed by, 

as if poured into a chasm 

with no bottom, no end. I felt stuck 

in between my father’s slaps, 

between my prayers at night 

not to beat Mother to death, 

between the bruises on her face, 

on her back, on her hands, 

her broken ribs, pulled hair, 

(I was in my room, shivering, around six), 

between two burning candles 

in the dim air at church, 

between two spells by my grandma 

whispered at dusk, like a witch, 

spells which 

stop men from drinking and beating, 

between two Christmas Eves, 

between two homes, two cities, 

and a broken life 

which I did not choose. 

When Grandma passed, 

she didn’t depart all at once. 

She left slowly, little by little. 

She slipped away with the last pears 

she picked days before her death, 

with the slippers by the door 

that we didn’t dare touch 

until spring, 

with the last pinches of savoury, mint, 

marjoram, and St. John’s wort, 

secretly tucked into my rucksack, 

wrapped in a brown paper bag. 

With the last handfuls of macaroni 

she made for the grandkids 

last summer, out in the yard, 

with her gown still hanging 

in the hallway, 

heavy with the absence of her. 

Now and then, she would come back 

for a brief moment— 

with the fragrant geraniums in the garden 

she handed me the last time I saw her, 

with the grapevine, which bore fruit 

for the first time that autumn, 

with the Christmas bread recipe, 

handwritten on a piece of paper, folded 

in four, which I know 

like the back of my hand, 

yet I read each year, 

caressing the paper with my fingers, 

summoning memories of her 

with every piece of bread I tear… 

Only the empty house 

reminds us abruptly 

of how far she is 

from here. 

Mum bought a new dress and was happy for a while –

woollen, winter dress, dark blue,

the neckline was shaped like a glass of wine; the dress had embroidery

and a knitted belt and stopped a few inches above her knees; she had

pretty legs, and hands, and hair, and face; she put the dress on and

did a pirouette in front of the mirror; when dad came back from work

and saw her all smiling and happy, his face turned red

– you want men to turn after you on the street, huh?

I heard him saying.

Then the shouting muffled his words; the beating lasted all night; all

night I stayed up in my room, barefoot, frightened, only six, praying

my mum would be alive in the morning.

She was.

I found her on the floor, still wearing the dress, blue mixed with

red; I saw the sadness flowing from her eyes and turning into a puddle;

the marks on her face remained for days; they were the same blue as

the new dress.