The Sea Hides Fish.
I cannot go on, eyes closed,
sewn with loose black thread— unraveled
from the night my frock caught on a
thorn tree— Half seeing two countries
that do not see me,
the way I wish to be seen.
On a boat, in the arid air
a child whispers “The sea hides fish...”
A mother who has lost her Maya exclaims,
“Until they swim to the top”—
Strangers ask:
"Ghar kaha hain?”
“Where is your home”
Like an orphan wandering; “Serif mere undar,”
“Only inside of me”
But there is a home, there was a home, there is a solace
inside the water, inside the blood, inside the water again:
Everything that was once your mother’s womb— now,
You wonder, where is there to go that loves you?
You enter here and cover yourself,
with your own skin and you enter
There, without a veil— they say
“Have you no shame?”
Look back, and then forward—
I remember when my father showed me,
a proper noun— A Country— does not matter for each has it's
own terrain. He worked to climb the mountains at night
Of both/
Of there— of here...dependent on
the light of stars and moon/
just to give his daughter a gift—
of a red bike tied with red balloons.
So I too, grew up
wandered into darkness when the sun
chose not to acknowledge me and
My mother’s voice arrested me:
“You must stand on your own two feet.”
I told her if I have legs,
there is no longer any use just standing.
I must run— no, stampede: into blackness,
however far or deep.
She said her country told her:
“Only women who are loose
like the bottom of a frock
come out at night." I said no,
I learned from father— that I can be
harder than a rock bouncing on cement.
Even in the dark I can be a fish that lurks
right under the water— who moves
so swiftly, no fisherman can catch.
On a boat, in the arid air
a Mother whispers “The sea hides fish...”
A child who has lost her Mother exclaims,
“Until they swim to the top”—
These countries gift you sturdy arms,
tie your eyes with threads as you
carry rocks, walk between
blood and the water. (Something like your mother’s womb)
You will not tell me, I did not spend a childhood
looking into the windows
of two countries
that did not see
me.
Meetra Javed is a Pakistani-American writer and multidisciplinary artist who also works for a creative agency. She is currently in the process of editing her first full-length poetry book, Standard Deviation, and is working on her first screenplay. Instagram: @Meeetraaa.