Catherine-Esther Cowie

Love Stories
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Saturday afternoon, your man cursed you out of your skin while you crockpotted some macaroni & cheese for him. You thought about Auntie Sheilah’s story, how Grandma slapped her face with a whole raw chicken when she was a teenager ‘-cause Auntie Sheilah had said she was too tired to wash dishes, ask somebody else. You remembered the neighbor who lived next to Auntie Sheilah, how she came running out the house barefoot, flung herself onto the red hood of her boyfriend’s car as he drove away. How the car did not stop. How the woman rolled, all her business exposed for the neighborhood. Auntie Sheilah had sucked her teeth, chupid woman, and continued clipping her toenails. Then you thought about Grandma’s story, the one about the woman laid up on her couch, the woman’s lip split for the umpteenth time. Grandpa sent over with his police badge to threaten her husband to stop. How a week later that split-lip woman cursed Grandma out—her husband had taken up with a sketel. Somehow that woman reminded you of your sister, how she changes her skin for her boyfriends. He kah stand the smell of mango, your sister’s favorite, suddenly mango giving her bellyache. Then Auntie ZiZi’s laughing mouth, her tea-stained teeth, and red-red tongue popped into your head. How she said she was laid up in the bed with some man when he told her she needed to stop messaging and texting him so much, his wife might see her name pop up on his phone when they order stuff from Amazon or use Google Maps. Auntie Zizi said she ain’t never heard of a wife before. And he just laid there in the bed with his eyes closed, hands clasped like he in prayer, talking, talking, talking. She noticed her wide crotch panties at the foot of the bed, grabbed them and lashed him across his face. Then Auntie Zizi leaned back in her chair and laughed and laughed. Auntie Sheilah clucked her tongue, that didn’t hurt him none, all he got was a sniff of your stink bottom. Auntie Zizi hooted, I had just gotten my period. Then you thought about Mummy. After every fight with Daddy, she smashed plates on the back stairs. When you were eleven, she took you shopping at the home goods store for a replacement set. Which one you like more? Mummy asked. The black set with the spiraling grey pattern, you liked the textured feel of the plate. Or the blue, with the yellow petaled flowers. Or that one, all white with a gold rim. Couldn’t we get more than one? you asked. Mummy shook her head no, left the store without buying anything. Stopped at the grocery store on the way home. You dropped a packet of Daisy paper plates and paper cups into the shopping cart. How Mummy looked at you like you were too young to have such sense when she unloaded the cart at the register. Then you thought about Auntie Sheilah again, how you liked the taste of her hand—macaroni pie and brown-sugared beef. What she had said to you, right after you had cleaned your plate, right in front of her husband, glad you prefer my food to lipstick-office girls. The day your husband cursed you out of your skin, you took a stack of silver-rimmed white plates along with the matching bowls, the set he gave you for Christmas, put on his department store credit card that up to now he hadn’t paid off—gave them to your mother.

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​Catherine-Esther Cowie is a poet, fiction writer and visual artist. She was born and raised on the Caribbean island of St. Lucia. Currently, she resides in Illinois. Her debut collection, Heirloom (Carcanet Press, 2025), is a Poetry Book Society Recommendation and was shortlisted for the Forward Jerwood Prize for Best Collection and the T.S. Elliot Prize 2025.