Listen to the world’s best poetry read out loud.

When she gets angry, she smiles  

and sweetly excusing herself  

she flees to the kitchen  

and picks up the knife. 

There, with a wild and murderous rage,  

she chops and cuts and slices and dices  

carrots potatoes cauliflower and cabbage: 

the picture of a dutiful wife. 

She weeps over onions  

she gouges out eyes  

she grinds her teeth with the spices  

and she roasts and she fries. 

She burns the milk she churns the curd  

she minces the meat and she utters not a word. 

She boils the water. 

She simmers the tea. 

She teaches her daughter: 

“Girl, don’t you be like me.” 

…  

The last thing I want,  

mother,  

is to grow up  

to be you. 

So patient  

so docile  

so kind and so mild. 

So eager to wait upon  

your husband and child. 

So loving  

so slaving over a hot fire. 

So quick  

to whip up a meal or a snack. 

So fleet with your fingers  

with a stitch or a tack. 

So silent in grief  

so alone so bereaved 

so forgotten  

so left behind  

so taken for granted and under-achieved. 

So blamed  

so worried  

so self-defeated so harried 

so sad  

so glad  

to be a mother and a wife all your life. 

No, 

I won’t be you.  

Never. Not me.  

But first,  

I’ll just get my husband  

his tea.