Find The Place Of Origin Before My Birth Poem by Margaret Alice

You made pasta for you and the kids
I looked on longingly; pasta looks good,
so very good, it is comfort food

I dished up potatoes for myself, some
meat, that was that – while you lot tucked
into your great-looking pasta dish

Too wonderful to describe – afterwards
I promised myself just a very small
bite, just to taste

Just to remind me of what it’s like
one bite led to another and another and
another - I fell into temptation

It was amazing… This morning I sit
at my desk, doing my best to concentrate,
but pain is taking my thoughts away

You did not make the rule no pasta
for me; you found it necessary to help
me survive to keep pasta out of my life

But I had to indulge, had to find out for
myself; now once again, all the symptoms
are back; stomach burning, ears aching

Barbed wire in my head; a heart full of
fears… the bane of my life is food, bread,
the staple of life, pasta, fish, everything good

I have to insist that I’m an alien life form,
my digestive system was not made for this
world, and I want to go back

To wherever I came from, feeling so terribly
sick, feeling so bad, feeling so guilty and sad;
simply because I desired a morsel of

Your lovely, lovely food; it must be a sign
that I don’t belong on this earth; I must find the
place of origin before my birth…