Because of My Mother by Sara Elkamel

Wasafiri is proud to publish the pieces shortlisted for the 2024 Queen Mary Wasafiri New Writing Prize. In this dense, run-on poem, Sara Elkamel looks at every aspect of her life and gaze as touched by her mother's.

The 2025 Queen Mary Wasafiri New Writing Prize is open until 30 June 2025. Read the full guidelines and submit your work.

I know cravings because of my mother. I was born with pale green grapes on my pelvis because of my mother. I know rice pudding, cotton balls and milk tea because of my mother. I am always six because of my mother. Six spoons of sugar because of my mother. As a girl in the Mediterranean I almost drowned because of my mother. I could never swim because of my mother. I found the chest of my father because of my mother. I feed on the soft skin inside my lips because of my mother. The sounds I make embarrass me because of my mother. I am afraid of my fingers because of my mother. Of myself in the dark because of my mother. Every time I touch my clitoris I smell fire. She said I will not burn you only because I am your mother. I am convinced the body can only be used once because of my mother. I think I should sleep very still because of my mother. I did not shave until I was twenty-six because of my mother. I know how hair yields to sugar because of my mother. How hairless my mother. Flaxen grass around my lips because of my mother. A goat grazing deserts looking for a mother. I found mothers in classrooms, eating pain perdu in Montmartre, in the Dead Sea one spring because of my mother. In dream after dream I am as yellow as a migrant dog in a cave with no mother. I lick open the mouths of caves because of my mother. I translate the wind because of my mother. Everywhere I go I make a temporary mosque because of my mother. I sift through the rice grain by grain looking for stones because of my mother. I feed everyone else before myself because of my mother. I could never get the meat cubes to soften because of my mother. In Cairo after New York, I had a house to stay in because of my mother. The curtains a sickening yellow because of my mother. I moved so slow that year because of my mother. The nutritionist said I was addicted to sugar because of my mother. I cut out sugar because of my mother. I was convinced the bed was infested with bugs because of my mother. My back bled for days because of my mother. I burned the mattress because of my mother. I think I should always sleep in someone else’s skin because of my mother. I am dreaming of two identical mothers and I do not scream because maybe one of them is my mother. Both chew their bright orange lips in the same mirror. For years I collected negatives of wombs because of my mother. My own womb is crawling out of itself and where is my mother. All night my lung licks itself because of my mother. The fear as insoluble as sulfur. I dissolve sugar in lukewarm water because of my mother. I am bad with water because of my mother. Bad with fire because of my mother. I sweeten even the softest grapes because of my mother. Put my ears to my pelvis because of my mother. I don’t know where the pain is because of my mother. I know time can stop because of my mother. If I sleep very still I might become my mother. How do I peel the years off my face and give them to my mother? Put back my milk teeth! Untrain my bladder! I want to stay young and wait for a mother. Instead I am swimming right into my mother. 

The 2025 Queen Mary Wasafiri New Writing Prize is open for submissions until 30 June 2025. Submit here.

Cover image: Mothers (Mütter), print, Käthe Kollwitz, Metropolitan Museum of Art, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons