She sits there selling bangles Set up in a wicker basket Some laid down on the grass Every now and then she gently Sweeps off the dust that spreads thinly From teeming feet that hurry past Barely slowing near the woman Sitting on her haunches hoping For someone to slow down, to pause Her concave belly almost touching The basket that is tugging The life blood from her womb Every time that she moves Spilling it in little driblets Onto its precious load
The maternal bond of glass and blood Unremitting, never enough As she sits car-caressing Sometimes fretting, sometimes fussing Rearranging, caring, loving Always loving, always loving A tender smile hov-hovering Around her tired mouth She is umbilical-corded To her treasures Resting in their bed of wicker Willing them to cleave their way Into the hearts of passersby Willing them to shine so bright That it brings tears to her eyes The boundless world of plenty In those bangles by her side
Behind her lie two little heads Heat-numbed and stupefied Little thumbs in little mouths Doing their best to pacify The endless hunger in their bellies Matured and rarefied Over lifetimes spent behind Their mother as she hums Little songs of gentle rain On golden fields of wheat and rye Watching their little sisters Take all their mother’s time Resting in their basket They tinkle and they wink They watch their little sisters Gleaming, laughing in delight Suckling on the joyfulness That streams from their mother’s eyes.
NB: Image is from the World Wide Web. Artist was not mentioned.
There’s a sweet pain in my chest A bloom of soft memories in my head They hold hands for a time Making me smile for a little while Charging then to pierce my eyes Awkward friends This ache in my ribs And these recollections They make me weep And yet all the while Hugging each atom of my being Places and spaces inside of me Phantom-greyed, blue-bruised, bleak Stark in the darkness of old scars and stings Fledgling losses, crushed hearts and things They hold them close the vital lot Nostalgia and loss begot I have a tender-sweet ache in my chest I wait for my pin-pricked eyes to attest To love that was gentle, to the fierce kind Rapt in reminiscence they fill my mind.
Mahvash Mohtadullah 