Two Poems by Naush Sabah

Closures

Aubergine soft at mid-afternoon,
blanketed down with me,
cub-like again at my bosom,
downy and warm-footed,
erupting kisses so quickly,
feather of eyelash brushing
gentle and light at my cheek.
How have we come here—
into this future-past? Heart
jellied in my throat,
kaleidoscopic images of us
like this, like this, each day,
mothering with an intensity
not felt since school and work
overtook our milky hours,
pulled us out of this duvet
querulous, braced against chill.
Rest here doughy in my arms, be
slow and whisper winding stories.
Tell me things we have time for,
untethered from the institutions,
vivaria I couldn’t keep us from,
womb-ejected and world-worn.
Xanthic skies dim the room now.
You drift to my rhythm at last,
zoetic air our only sound.

Animal

The body in waiting is a scared animal,
brittle-nerved and hunched over in hot
water. Under the stream of the shower
my abdomen convulses as if labouring.
I have come here to unknot myself but
the drains are clogged with my doubts.
I shared female knowledge like a quiet
secret. In all these ways your own body
will become strange to you. See this, yeh?
This is what I have to put up with; this
is what you get like. Speak, bitch. Today,
I’ve chosen to stop loving and be silent.
Since I’m no good at counting out days,
I play at guesswork, glance at calendars,
search through messages, gnaw at nails.
The scared animal of my body curls up,
embedding itself in the wall of my uterus.
Are you safe there, little mouse, little rat?
Are you there at all—or is this nausea the
long, drawn-out rope coiling around my
neck, pulling until there’s resistance, until
my skin puffs blue with panic? Acid rises.
What did I tell you, you stupid cunt? Are
you taking the fucking piss? On the other
side of the door, it is clean, the bathroom
tap drips seductively. Oh, the bare floor,
the soft towels, the scented candle, unlit.
Isn’t it quiet besides the sound of my sobs
as I brush my teeth for a full two minutes?
Under the steam of the mirror, I almost
make out my face; soft, blue, framed by
limp curls. Outside, patience is thinning.
In my body, blood pulses. I fill my lungs.
On the toilet lid, the stick is face up and
a faint red line is forming, almost invisible,
as if too scared to be drawn. I won’t see it.

Naush Sabah's pamphlet Litanies will be published by Guillemot Press in November. She is the Editor and Publishing Director at Poetry Birmingham.