By Sarah Hafeez
My mother’s ivory-hued shirt,
A gift, is still crisp from the 1990 rains.
Tried on once before the mirror—
And she, too embarrassed to walk out
In it before my father or anyone else.
It smells of her jasmine itar
That has conquered the cupboard,
Despite its drawered incarceration.
When she passes it down
To me today,
I reject it as too loose and old-
Fashioned.
For the numbed and tasteless buds,
I am jeans-thick-skinned. I do not wear shirts.
So, her shroud-like attire is once more
Embalmed in its 43-year-old casket.
And her grief-stained, oft-worn dupattas
Offer their condolences and hide her pain,
Behind the veil of a living woman’s
Dead desires.