Ghazal: My Son

Poetry by Fatima Elreda
Photo by Nienke Burgers

I see my grandfather’s olive groves flickering in the eyes of my son.
I sing lullabies until my throat blisters, stars wishing upon my son. 

My fingers trace rivers traversing translucent eyelids that flow into his eyes. 
Waves wash away two pronouns --you & I-- my son. 

He says a few words now, but I worry my days away
fretting over syllables not yet formed, whole and ripe, by my son.

Verbs are still out of reach, but he builds meaning like sandcastles-- 
vocabulary expands: big/ red/ house-- words that belong to my son. 

Do you think God hears my poems? Pieces of anguished prayers,
thank-you notes for a name that never was before my son.

The words, inexhaustible, trickle down windows begging to be washed.
Infinite to-do lists smeared with guilt can wait, because first comes my son.

I’ve died a thousand deaths, but my resurrection is incomplete.
I come back gauzed in a beautiful dream, a disjointed Lego being contrived by my son.

He assembles: mama/ house as he folds my arms and nestles in my embrace. 
A violent tenderness bursts, tears and milk glide. You are home, my son.

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