The Woman Who Would Be Mother

~ though we did not share a womb ~

Portrait of the Author as a young child

It’s dusk.

“Come child, sit”

she’d say.

Wood fire

clay courtyard

small and damp

smell of which

sits in my soul

like aromatic earth

even today.

My Ayah’s lap

a cradle

like no other

a cradle of cloud,

amplitude

and simply

griddle-smell mother.

I dream I’m safe in

sandy warmth of

goose flesh arms

which throw a cordon

against night fears.

Which mother

picks flesh

off her own rib cage

so that

her child might eat?

“Here eat,”

she says

week after week as

she serves up a

precious goat chop