They grow too aware of crowns, spend evenings rinsing and rinsing, water boiled with oils and herbs left to cool alongside chicken and grains. The women send their children to work, on themselves or the house, and steam their scalps. I dream of my father but don't know what he says. It's kind. I share rice and other grains with a man. I hand him light in my kitchen. He takes it and my belly cools. I prefer not to write about love. I prefer not to write about my body. My father's love, my mother's body. Both regenerate with astounding speed. At times, I find myself in an ancient pose. In a café, I make my arms a bow and look up, as if an arrow will appear at an absurd angle. I mark a line from privacy to throat, trace the dark line under my bellybutton. Maybe someone took my astral baby. Maybe I birthed the man who denied me. Maybe he had to deny me to avoid a crime. I don't point my fingers. I'm convinced our fate is determined in part by water, that we can't avoid walking by or being near a body of it, however we plan our travel. That showers are prescribed before birth. How many things have I missed letting my wet bangs touch my eyelashes, singing into a stream? Copyright © 2019 Ladn Osman. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on June 19, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets. |
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