DILRUBA AHMED
Mother
That I could rub this belly and conjure
a child before
you go: golden bangle
on her fat wrist, saffron highlights in the sun.
She won’t
know she has your half-playful, half-
cruel knack for a joke, the same glossy hair
that slips
from a bun. Deft hands that shape foil
into swans or pull tomatoes from vines
with gentle
pressure. Later, she’ll feel your absence,
too. She won’t know that, years before
you’d
understand malaria or dengue fever
or neighbors gathering in lines to give blood,
you sailed
your road by boat
when the first floods rippled at your door.
How you and
three brothers gazed at the fish—
mercurial flashes. Light in the dark.
She won’t
hear the old stories: names
I can’t remember, places I’ve never been.
You’ll
return to her in the dryness
of bay leaves, the mingled scents
of pepper dust
and pine. She’ll measure spices
into pots in all the right combinations.
It will take
a lifetime to get it right. ![](../../images/bug_print.gif)
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