Pink sequins and an emerald wrist
in a mirror marred by violence.
Look behind you, there is a spider clinging
to a flimsy web that cannot be held
together by mere words alone.
In a green silk blouse shimmering
like sunshine on a crystal tear,
you look for distraction in a mirror;
you stroke old wounds with fingers
yellowed by cheap cigarettes and years
of bitter acceptance.
Through evenings smelling of stale smoke
and plants dying in Moroccan terracotta,
you comb your hair in a window lit
by moonbeams frail and tarnished with time.
You sleep to the lonely sound of chimes,
and engulf yourself in the folds
of a long and scathing solitude.
Zaina Anwar 2010