On that cleaning day
When the late spring heat broke
In my house, the cool water splashes
Sounded over the sound of dragged
Furniture, and I sung alone.
Cinderellaizing myself with
The mop and giggling at the joke
I pushed the loud table in place,
And stood somewhat bowed, index finger
Flying noticeably all around. 'Now, Now'
‘You little thing, making noise?
What is it that you hide?'
(A funny mother am I).
On that same cleaning day
I have let my finger lay
On my jaw, as I tried to look
Thoughtful and flipped through
The sketches in his drawer.
I rummaged through the drawer
And colored the gray sketches
One by one, then swelled my
Nose on the paper, drew the wrinkles
I possess and finally, rubbed the
Curves off the sketches.
On the dinner table I hid my smile
In the water glass as he looked
At the sketches, and hid his fury
In his plate. I grinned at him
Because I was no more a sketch,
In his drawer. He grinned back not
Because I was no more a sketch,
In his drawer.
Author Bio:
Rabia Basri Malik is a 21-year-old thoughtfully bold and boldly thoughtful aspiring poetess. She has recently started writing poetry and publishes her poetry on her blog frombreezestostorms.wordpress.com. She considers herself a poetess-in-making and sees herself as a bold voice for women.
When the late spring heat broke
In my house, the cool water splashes
Sounded over the sound of dragged
Furniture, and I sung alone.
Cinderellaizing myself with
The mop and giggling at the joke
I pushed the loud table in place,
And stood somewhat bowed, index finger
Flying noticeably all around. 'Now, Now'
‘You little thing, making noise?
What is it that you hide?'
(A funny mother am I).
On that same cleaning day
I have let my finger lay
On my jaw, as I tried to look
Thoughtful and flipped through
The sketches in his drawer.
I rummaged through the drawer
And colored the gray sketches
One by one, then swelled my
Nose on the paper, drew the wrinkles
I possess and finally, rubbed the
Curves off the sketches.
On the dinner table I hid my smile
In the water glass as he looked
At the sketches, and hid his fury
In his plate. I grinned at him
Because I was no more a sketch,
In his drawer. He grinned back not
Because I was no more a sketch,
In his drawer.
Author Bio:
Rabia Basri Malik is a 21-year-old thoughtfully bold and boldly thoughtful aspiring poetess. She has recently started writing poetry and publishes her poetry on her blog frombreezestostorms.wordpress.com. She considers herself a poetess-in-making and sees herself as a bold voice for women.
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