Poetry
My Favorite Reader
I would have her be a housewife
on a day she has time to clean out the top shelf
of the cupboard, wedding gifts stashed in faded
resealed wraps of tissue green and red,
like spirits waiting to cross over,
held back by indecision. The housewife, let's call her Saleha,
checks gifts she wants to pass on,
picks up my book of poems,
a slim copy, the first (and only) edition.
The jacket dusty,
a cobweb clinging to its spine,
connected to the shelf,
not ready to let go. She flicks to the front page, reads,
"Happy Returns of the Day!
May your wedded life be a poem!"
She squints at the watery blue ink,
diluted with time, dated six years back.
The book is of little value now.
The regret spreads
she sits hunched over on the floor,
tendrils of hair escaping her tight bun. The dust motes scintillate the morning light,
settle as she reads,
her elongated shadow squashed,
Transformed.
She reads while the chicken curry sizzles to an umber
sauce,
an oily layer surfacing, a glorious charred smell.
And yet her eyes scan the pages she turns,
seeking validation, discovers the poetry of her wedded life.
on a day she has time to clean out the top shelf
of the cupboard, wedding gifts stashed in faded
resealed wraps of tissue green and red,
like spirits waiting to cross over,
held back by indecision. The housewife, let's call her Saleha,
checks gifts she wants to pass on,
picks up my book of poems,
a slim copy, the first (and only) edition.
The jacket dusty,
a cobweb clinging to its spine,
connected to the shelf,
not ready to let go. She flicks to the front page, reads,
"Happy Returns of the Day!
May your wedded life be a poem!"
She squints at the watery blue ink,
diluted with time, dated six years back.
The book is of little value now.
The regret spreads
she sits hunched over on the floor,
tendrils of hair escaping her tight bun. The dust motes scintillate the morning light,
settle as she reads,
her elongated shadow squashed,
Transformed.
She reads while the chicken curry sizzles to an umber
sauce,
an oily layer surfacing, a glorious charred smell.
And yet her eyes scan the pages she turns,
seeking validation, discovers the poetry of her wedded life.
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