KD
  • Home
  • About
    • Contributors List
    • KD's Blog
    • Award Nominations
    • Support
    • Contact
  • Press
  • Issues
    • Issue 49
    • Issue 48
    • Issue 47
    • Issue 46
    • Issue 45
    • Issue 44
    • Issue 43
    • Issue 42
    • Issue 41
    • Issue 40
    • Issue 39
    • Issue 38
    • Issue 37
    • Issue 36
    • Issue 35
    • Issue 34
    • Issue 33
    • Issue 32
    • Issue 31
    • Issue 30
    • Issue 29
    • Issue 28
    • Issue 27
    • Issue 26
    • Issue 25
    • Issue 24
    • Issue 23
    • Issue 22
    • Issue 21
    • Issue 20
    • Issue 19
    • Issue 18
    • Serenity
    • Issue 17
    • The Audio Room
    • Issue 16
    • Issue 15
    • Issue 14
    • Play It Again
    • Issue 13
    • Issue 12
    • Issue 11
    • Issue 10
    • Issue 9
    • Issue 8
    • Issue 7
    • Issue 6
    • Hand to Mouth
    • Issue 5
    • Issue 4
    • Issue 3
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 1
  • Submissions

Tasneem Maher

At the Endocrinologist's Waiting Room with My Mother

​Let me language my body into an understanding that doesn’t instantly
condemn it. The light I see by mutates but not enough to diminish mirrors --
 
their endlessness, the bleeding corners of reflection. Russian Roulette all the ways
I can appear to you or myself (what’s the difference?). I try to knife into lineage
 
only to liquid its shadows. I try to draw a map only to border absence, stretch
my frame into the afternoon sun. A festering comorbidity, resentment dissolves
 
commiseration like light beneath its tongue. The press of teeth; the barometer bursts.
If I say anything, I will stuff it into my fist like a jewelled beetle in a handkerchief.
 
Oh, had it been a clutch of hands coalescing warmth, the brilliance of starburst.
Had it been something that finds memory and pinpricks with affection,
 
leaving the liver of it intact. Instead, here we are, passing foxglove petals between ourselves.
Crushed to watery veins, they shrink into silver, blinking at us under the fluorescents.
 
I want you to look at me and tell me my body is something worth having.
I want to be full enough to render feathers wingless, hot enough to burn perception out of being.

Biography

Tasneem Maher is an Arab writer and poet who encourages theatrics and melodrama of any kind. A Best of the Net nominee, her work has been featured in Vagabond City Lit, tenderness lit, and Jaffat El Aqlam, amongst others. She is also Fiction and Personal Essay Editor at Sumou Mag. She tweets @mythosgal.
back to issue
​Next Poem →
Picture
ISSN 2639-426X
© COPYRIGHT 2018-2021. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
  • Home
  • About
    • Contributors List
    • KD's Blog
    • Award Nominations
    • Support
    • Contact
  • Press
  • Issues
    • Issue 49
    • Issue 48
    • Issue 47
    • Issue 46
    • Issue 45
    • Issue 44
    • Issue 43
    • Issue 42
    • Issue 41
    • Issue 40
    • Issue 39
    • Issue 38
    • Issue 37
    • Issue 36
    • Issue 35
    • Issue 34
    • Issue 33
    • Issue 32
    • Issue 31
    • Issue 30
    • Issue 29
    • Issue 28
    • Issue 27
    • Issue 26
    • Issue 25
    • Issue 24
    • Issue 23
    • Issue 22
    • Issue 21
    • Issue 20
    • Issue 19
    • Issue 18
    • Serenity
    • Issue 17
    • The Audio Room
    • Issue 16
    • Issue 15
    • Issue 14
    • Play It Again
    • Issue 13
    • Issue 12
    • Issue 11
    • Issue 10
    • Issue 9
    • Issue 8
    • Issue 7
    • Issue 6
    • Hand to Mouth
    • Issue 5
    • Issue 4
    • Issue 3
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 1
  • Submissions