Night of the Scorpion

I remember the night my motherwas stung by a scorpion.

Ten hoursof steady rain had driven himto crawl beneath a sack of rice.

Parting with his poison - flashof diabolic tail in the dark room -he risked the rain again.

The peasants came like swarms of fliesand buzzed the name of God a hundred timesto paralyse the Evil One.

With candles and with lanternsthrowing giant scorpion shadowson the mud-baked wallsthey searched for him: he was not found.

They clicked their tongues.

With every movement that the scorpion made his poison moved in Mother's blood, they said.

May he sit still, they

May the sins of your previous birthbe burned away tonight, they said.

May your suffering decreasethe misfortunes of your next birth, they said.

May the sum of all evilbalanced in this unreal worldagainst the sum of goodbecome diminished by your pain.

May the poison purify your fleshof desire, and your spirit of ambition,they said, and they sat aroundon the floor with my mother in the centre,the peace of understanding on each face.

More candles, more lanterns, more neighbours,more insects, and the endless rain.

My mother twisted through and through,groaning on a mat.

My father, sceptic, rationalist,trying every curse and blessing,powder, mixture, herb and hybrid.

He even poured a little paraffinupon the bitten toe and put a match to it.

I watched the flame feeding on my mother.

I watched the holy man perform his rites to tame the poison with an incantation.

After twenty hoursit lost its sting.

My mother only

Thank God the scorpion picked on

And spared my