by marziya mohammedali
she adorns herself with her grief,
sits fireside and watches it smoulder.
first the tiny tendrils flicker, each one
a heartache just waiting to catch:
vague memories of a mother, unknown,
doors slamming in empty homes,
yet another night spent wishing
a spark jumps, sets her ablaze.
flames weaves into fabric,
patching darkness with unbearable light:
that first shy smile, the moment
of falling into impossible hope,
the sudden kick of life growing within.
she pitches forth, fully aflame.
the memories rush, flickering moments
burning their way out:
that faint, beautiful flutter, dying away,
the machines clawing at her,
sucking out all she ever held dear until
… a shell of a woman.
unwoman, she calls herself.
unwoman. unperson. unbeing.
Marziya Mohammedali is a writer, photographer, multidisciplinary designer and university tutor. (more)