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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: June 10, 2016

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Submitted: June 10, 2016



After school,
and at home,
Shoshana goes
to her room,
gets out
of her uniform,
slips into
something casual,
tidies up,
folds her
uniform neatly,
and places it
on the chair.

She brushes her hair,
then the imagined
Naaman is there
(not the real),
gazing at her
behind her
in the mirror.

You shouldn't be here,
she says,
then realizes
it isn't
the real Naaman.

You gave me a shock,
she says,
putting down
the brush,
looking at him.

Wish you
were the real one,
she says.

Downstairs she hears
her father's voice;
her parents are
arguing loudly.

Must go,
she says,
opens the door,
and goes
down the stairs
to the lounge,
where the voices
are shouting.

She stands by the door,
and stares at them.

What is
the shouting about?
She says.

Her father looks at her;
your sister Miriam
has become pregnant,
he says,
and not married yet,
and that boy
she is living with
is not of the right sort.

I told her
about going away,
but would she listen?
The father adds.

She is a woman
not a child,
the mother says,
she is 19 not
like Shoshana 13.

It is still not right;
what will
the neighbours say?

What about our standing
in the community?
The father says.

Shoshana says nothing,
goes and sits
on the sofa;
the imagined Naaman
sits beside her,
bemused by
the raised voices.

I am going
to be an aunt
Shoshana muses,
folding her fingers
together on her knees.

She hasn't seen Miriam
for months
and the man
she is with
she has only
seen once.

She wishes
the real Naaman
was there
beside her now,
wonders what
her parents would say
if suddenly
he was there
and they saw him.

Then she is
glad he isn't,
because her father
would blow
into a rage
and throw
him out
and God knows
what he would
do to her.

She watches
as the parents row;
pretends in her mind,
the real Naaman
is there now.

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