Thursday, 15 November 2012


‘What does grief look like, mother?’
I stopped midway
My dishcloth hanging in the air
Foam dripping off my tired fingers
Into the messy sink
As she looked my way.
What do I say?

Do I unburden my life
Onto her innocent shoulders?
Or do I just brush it away?
But our lives have been brushed away enough
By rulers and informers,
Swept under the carpet
Hushing our painful cries
as they stamped our graves.
So I said,
‘My daughter, come here, hold my hand’
‘Let me walk you through my life
And show you what grief looked like.’

‘Grief looked like your aunt Yasmin's hands
when they beat her chest
as she saw her little Amir
Get blown into insignificance
As he stepped out the gate’

‘Grief looked like my neighbour Karim's face
when they marched into his house
And raped his pregnant wife.’

Grief is now settled
in the corners of my eyes
Sometimes rolling down my battered cheek,
Before penetrating me,
Look at me,
Grief is me. Every Single Day.

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