THE DEFINITIVE TIME OF NOTHINGNESS

by Sheikha A.

Her eyes are ponds rippling the moon;

snip in the air turning fade

and the confusion of a quarrel

with the deceased relative’s visit

in mother’s dream is grimier

than the clarity of murky water

she saw centered in a ruinous court-

yard. It must have been the moon

had browned in the hide of a bear –

the tones of honey-hue yet majestic dusky;

she wasn’t able to tell one from the other

while we waited as a weightless voice

like in chants of allegiance, when a grave

is ordered to convert into a fruit-

bearing field. Mother’s mind is

listening to winds; how fast metres

race when arrival collides with departure.

Of late, this is how it’s been. She gets

on her feet with a scrubber and can’t

decide what corner needs most

cleaning attention. Fabrics of chiffon

are the different ways she folds

in decisiveness. We see her looking

outwards, towards the common

man taking the bus to work, she

sees his feet are steady even if his

heart has lost accountability of

the number of breaths he draws

out of his veins, just to watch the day

successfully end without incident.

There is envy in that sort of timeliness;

predictability doesn’t have to be

a god, or human invention. And

we have seen many springs take

the stairs of summer to alter

flashing lights into a comfortable

breach-birthed darkness. We are

here hanging like the first sign,

the kind that we miss because

of speed, also cannot reverse to.

Mother knows from the circling

birds overhead, neon rains

are about to wet flamboyant

paints of vitality.