Tilt back your upraised face,
its twin arched widths of thick,
black brow. Close your eyes:
see, without seeing, the two long
sweeps of white thread unwound
from a spool through the unadorned
fingers of this woman you address
with respect as Auntie, though you
don't share with her any blood.
She pulls the strands taut, twists
them sharply into a braid she'll
press across each eyebrow, each
unwanted hair scythed sharply
away. Listen as she speaks to others
in this language unknown
but familiar: Urdu, rising soft, like
these damp whorls of hairspray
that fill the air briefly, then disappear
like those West Texas summers
your parents spent poolside, nights
your body was a shadow quickening
water, its new flesh unaware of its own
indecency. Nights ghazals sieved
through scuffed speakers, & in Urdu,
Ghulam Ali sang, chupke, chupke,
raat, deen—quietly, quietly, night & day—
as water darkens between your legs
scissoring back & forth. Already you had
begun to learn longing's strange
and famished lessons—assu bahana yaad
hai, Ghulam Ali sings, I remember
shedding tears—as Auntie Neelam tests
the wax, dips a wooden stick
into viscous amber liquid she will layer
thick on each arm, those slender
cylinders of skin and bone once heavy
with flesh. Even now, you want
more than you can bear: some space
to have as your own: not this
chair, taken over by some other body
bent backwards, not your apartment,
filled with papers, books thumbed through
on nights the stars remain unseen
through clouded sky. Once, your mother
knelt between your legs, trimmed
the hair there grown too quickly, warned
you, Never let anyone touch you
here. You were terrified no one would
those mornings spent veiled
in the mosque, gazing through the curtain
separating you and the other girls
from the men. Auntie Neelam layers
squares of cotton over the hot wax,
& you anchor your body so as not
to pull away—you close your eyes,
ready to flinch. Summers you pulled
away from any kind of touching.
Summers you ignored your parents, refused
to eat, obsessively read the Bible
instead of the Qur'an. Summers you repeated
to yourself, This is my body, do
this in remembrance of me—and the hiding
of your face with the veil, I remember,
Ghulam Ali sings. You extend one smooth arm
to Auntie Neelam, uncurl your palm,
let her press your fingertips down to hold it
flat. She squeezes out henna, fills
your hands with every imaginable shape
of intricate vine, fragile blossom.
You imagine her in Pakistan, cooking for
her husband, her long, dark hair
twisted away into a headscarf, a Qur'an
dark with dust on a high shelf
beside pictures of her younger self. What
right do you have to place her
there? You have given her a cheaply made
headscarf, a flimsier husband,
clichés for a life owned & lived. In return,
she has given your body, stripped
of its darkness, perfumed with sandalwood,
rosewater, its own sense of body.
This face that she has given such clarity
will, this evening, twist into a shy
smile at the man you & your parents
have promised it to. Before the veil
is draped over both your head & his, before
the gold bangles are struggled onto
your wrists, before the mirror is presented
& you glimpse yourself for the first time
as a married woman, you won't be thinking
of how Auntie Neelam offered you
a small mishti to ensure a lifetime of sweetness.
You won't be thinking about how,
with your tongue cradling its sugared milkiness,
you passed a wall of clematis vine,
noticed that each separate leaf was a hand fluttering
in low breeze. You won't recall, then,
the night you first learned to touch your own
body & offer it itself: darkness
a rough, soft palm shuddering backwards, forward—
you won't yet know that you will
never stop walking alone beneath a summer sky
twisting with such blue light.