(dedicated to women who once were girls )

the breeze is rustling through your being tonight;
a damp space ~
an ancient  dream
resting on your haunches;
an ancient song rises within
and
the body aches for longings 
it has forgotten;
there is a corner in the house 
where you hide your longings.

woman:
mother, sister, wife so many
roles to pick from 
and the day is spent in
the wearing and shedding them-

long before you could know
what your body wanted-
they pushed the masks into 
your hands 

the breeze knows 
when it passes through your body
what you have hidden under the fascia

locking your hands into dough
punching and kneading 
wiping sweat from a face with no remembrances of
a girl who once danced on a monsoon night –

bloated drainage pipes gushing and gurgling with fullness
you splashed your feet and thumped the ground
and the earth remembers the sound of your soul song

the monsoon groans for you
but
your hands are busy~

the clock ticks to dinner 
and
later there are dishes
and children
and the cloud will pause over you
it will call out 
and 
wait for a moment 
before  passing on

like every year.

waiting is an art only the elements know of.

hollow breathing…
and you sigh at the sound of the thunder 
somewhere deep inside you turn
as if a faint memory rose to the lungs and died in a sigh…

every year the monsoon honours the women who stopped dancing in the rain
and
it waits for them to return
from their collective amnesia

…
Dee is from lahore. loves old trees, words and surreal nights~