In the space of one semester

In the last four months, I have learned so much that is new. I know how to change a diaper, burp a baby, bathe her and change her outfit. I have the toys for distraction. I can talk baby-talk and heat up food with just one hand. I know I never need to set an alarm for waking up. 

I know the extent of her clothing better than I know my own, and I know how much laundry it takes. She changes 3-5 outfits a day and her neck is wet with milk and drool. 

I know her tired eyes and offended eyes, tired eyes and sleepy eyes, aching eyes and whining eyes and her pick-me-up eyes. I know how much of her crying I can take. I know love, too, can turn to rage and back again. 

I wonder what she will turn out to be. I am blessed by the moments when she is happy, and in someone else's hands. 

Language

All our lives

We think, speak, and breathe in you, 

And you betray us all with this 

Illusion of truth 

You spread like the vilest of rumors

Mouth to ear
Here, so near, 

Seeping, soaking. 

Fizzah

Your focus takes mine away
I see your eyes watching
Legs kicking, hands grabbing
Mouth open and excited and
Your sounds fill my heart
Your joy fills my mind
Your kicks speaks volumes
You look around with curiosity
And I am steeped with wonder
At you
Child of my body
I am in awe
Dear God, thank you, thank you
Thank you.

Confuddled

Lead us from the dark tides of the mind
Which are full of bogs and potholes and murky lies
Away from the dark horrors of the night

And bring us to something clean and bright
Something cool and sharp like the winter wind
On a snowy field

Take us to a place where we know for sure
What we are and what we should do
Who we are

The Mother's Life

I can no longer do anything
That can't be interrupted.
The stove must be turned off
Poems are left halfway

If I'm sitting, I stand
If I'm standing, I bounce
If I'm bouncing, I pace
I pick her up and grit my teeth

My arms know all the ways of holding her.
One hand under her and one hand across,
Making sure she doesn't scratch herself -

Propagation

One day at a time
Stumbling through life
Cutting up a mango
With an old, blunt knife.

We were six at first
Then doubled, coupled
Decided to have children
Our unexpected jewels

Happy Girl

I am so excited to see you growing!
A new size of clothes coming,
Your face brightly glowing,
Your lips are an O searching,
Mouth smiling, nose rubbing,
Hands grasping, legs kicking,
Eyes twinkling, all encompassing

Your long vowel oohs and aahs,
Your speaking, your laughing,
Neck lifting, head turning,
Wiggling and jiggling, happy now,
With a clean diaper and a full belly,
Ready to sleep, simple demands,
And when you are crying crying
Like Plath said, I am the arrow,
To you flying.

The Miracle of Life

Things have really turned around
Since that very first ultrasound

My room's quietly been taken over
By my little lucky four-leaf clover

While everyone's arms on her enclose
I keep my face expression composed

I stand by in case, waiting for her to cry
Giving up on any significant shut-eye

Ah but she is sweet, soft, cream,
My snow white pure sunlit beam

In her neck lingers a milky smell,
She tastes my skin and we are well

She surveys me with her watchful eyes
How wholeheartedly everything she tries!

Complete trust in her innocent face
My occasional anger - a shameful disgrace

I watch her from the corner of my eye
If anyone hurts her I swear they'll die (lol)

Write Right

What is my language
Who is my audience
What is my intention

These questions turn me, twist me and hang me until I'm dry.

To write something that can help someone, that would legitimize this.

This feeling

Sadness sits like a rock on my heart.
I sit down and cannot move.
My face cannot lift for a smile.
My feet are on the verge of collapse.
It appears and disappears out of nowhere.

It is so light
An illusion of weight
Gone with a change of scenery.
The littlest act of kindness
Scares it skittering away

Autobiography

I began writing when I was a child. I wrote what I did during the day in long, lined pages. I wrote the secret names of boys I liked (one mumin and one not) in my diary. I wrote poems with blue ink pens in neat handwriting.

My poetry never won any prizes until I was 18, but I was happy with my writing. It is like music: calming, when it is poetry. I tried and failed at writing short stories. I started and never finished a couple of novels.

So I wrote, in my journal mostly, my topics varying more over time: food, friends, parents, religion and money.

Then I found my husband, Huzefa, and I slowed down. My language changed. Reality itself changed. I am older and more confused. I used to be able to put my feelings into words. I used to be able and capable.

Now, I have to fool my mind into English by reading English library books. I borrow this language temporarily.

Now, I have a daughter: almost 4 months old. I write, thinking maybe one day she will read this. I have an audience. A hope of an audience. I write to you and for you, my darling, my brilliant girl.

A matter of time

We are not separate
So what if now, you are there
And I am here
One day, we will be one.

Say not, "How will you do it alone"
I do not accept that I am alone
It is only a matter of time,
Like the snow melted into spring,

And spring brought heat waves,
A boiling summer, so summer will bring rain
and cool into fall.
Autumn will change the colour of the leaves

And before winter takes its first icy breath,
Before the next snow falls,
You will hold your child in your arms,
And I will hold you.