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.
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.
