If I had Dali’s paint brush
His teasing lines,
And his melting surface of time
I would let you look in that mirror
And see for yourself
How pregnant I am
With a simple heartbeat
Like a peaceful lake at sundown
Filled to the brim
With the sun.
You would look in that mirror
And see me standing in the kitchen
With triumphant greasy hands
My freshly baked loaf on one side
The jarful of raindrops and desire on the other
And not in the least bothered
By the million babies pulling at the hems of my skirt.
You would no longer ask why
I am so tender,
So strong,
And so able to pity
A world that has wiped
From its memory
The face of its mother
For the terror of facing old age.
In that melting mirror
You would see me sitting still
At sundown
When the fast is over
Facing the east
Marveling at the surge of love
From the earth beneath the prayer rug
You would see me
Giving birth every morning
To a lucid blue sky
With a sun near enough for you
To burn your finger
When pointing carelessly in its direction.
St. Louis, Nov. 30, 2000
Ramadan 3rd.