Open in the Spring

Dalia Ahmed

This morning I watched my mother
unfurl like a cherry blossom.

Her arms branched towards the ceiling,
weaving into the air, coiling.

Her back, arched like a bough,
dripped satin bed sheets.

Words piled beneath her bottom lip,
pulled back in a yawn.

Her teeth—white buds—wedged
themselves between sunlight and

her voice, raw honey—
petals of Arabic swaying in the breeze.

In the afternoon, she sat like a mangrove,
her arms like roots submerged in cooking.

Her knees bent like reeds in the Egyptian
wind and rode the hardwood floors like leaves.

I wish I thanked her for reaching
into soil and watering down the world

before my eyes so like a banyan
I’d be able to grow from it.

This evening, I sit beneath my mother’s feet.
She is a date tree, arms spread wide and thin as the Nile.

Al Janna Tihtal Al Aghdam Al Muhama’at.
Heaven shadows itself in her footprints.

Back to top ↑

Sign up for Our Email Newsletter