Mother's Curls

her hijab is the colour of bruised sky
whipped routinely by lightning.
beneath that steeple of god-cloth
are eyes unseeing.

i pressed my face hard against
the back of her hand on Eid morn,
absentmindedly reciting
scripted pleas of forgiveness,
desperate
to leave an imprint of myself.

i wanted her to know me like she did
back when i slept curled
within her,
freshly thumbed into shape
by a god she sang verses to every night.

but the only song that mattered then
must have been the grinding lullaby
as her hand lovingly stroked
my devotion to her
into the aching infinity
it was, at that moment.

as i raised my wet face to meet
the unsettling certainty
that was her gaze,
she said almost conspiratorially,
you and me, my beauty
forever in His Paradise.

not this infidel, Mother,
i did not say.
but i smiled as she touched a tear
trailing traitrously down.
not this infidel...

my hijab was the colour of empty canvas
hungering for a Brushstroke.
it crackled and flickered above the swirl
of my hellfire eyes;

twin phoenices rising
from the pit they said i was destined for,
they soared into the sky
that was in my mother's eyes
when the curls of her locks
were still gripped tightly
in my tiny fist.