READ OUR STORIES |
READ OUR STORIES |
Lazarus of the Iril Banks
A shawl is a refuge when fabric fails—
Haophee, wrapped at the waist, warm as a mother's palm,
a substitute for the soft fall of a phanek over her lap.
And a hanging cloth, a flag of slight defiance—
Phadi, dangling like a comma of a flag over her flat breasts.
A she-symbol improvised from poverty’s silent wave.
A rag, yes, but a pronoun she could wear.
Of Unbrushed Hair and He Who Stands in Grandeur
My sister is winging a sharp eyeliner
She paces frantically back and forth in between —
Brushing her hair, caressing and ironing the black floral wrap dress
The one with the little white peonies engraved on, that she loves so much
She tells me she’s not to put on a lot of blush
Upon enquiring, she says her fiancé doesn’t like it—though she does.
A Mother's Lament: Sorrow's Enduring Embers
What of the child,
so pure and young,
the family's breadwinner,
whose old mother, ever vigilant
listens for his return.