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Nur Turkmani
Foresight
For months we wake up beside
each other. Both of us a little sad
unable to name what it is we forget.
You chop the parsley slowly,
marinate the meat in seven spices.
I learn without watching. I know
your shoulders hurt, your wrists
and lower back, and I want to be
a better daughter, pound the garlic
and carry your plastic bags
but you forgive me even before
I need you to. At night
I take you to see a play.
We sit at the back, giggling
like girls ecstatic to be friends.
On the way home it is dark and damp,
the lump in my throat sudden like fever.
To be born is to part you,
for the first time.
How else to say?
Mama I want to hold you,
to be held by you—forever.