My mother was a beauty queen You would not know this if you stared At the dark folded rugs under my eyes Or observed the puffed pastry of my face Rising and falling as I breathe. Good genes Skip a generation as if it was rope. They were young and beautiful still, When the men came knocking on the door of our Baghdad mansion. These were early days and discretion had not yet been cast to the wind. So the men crept up to the door like the abundant beetles that Patrolled our garden in spring . Father was whisked off in a black Mercedes, Through a night hole hastily sprung, Emerging on the other side to the warmth Of an interrogation cell. He returned in the morning, a man transformed, A Ulysses that had conversed with the dead about the nature of death, about the easy access the government provided to the Realms of death. The stench of it smeared his clothes. Years passed as we hopped Like a family of frogs across continents Until finally we found ourselves marooned On the grey island, west of France. They were no longer young. Time had blown away most of My father's hair, leaving strands in every country we bucked. Mother began to buy henna in bulk. Their PhDs hang on the wall, In frames where summer spiders Weave their nests. Age has loosened their bones. Placed a cough in both chests, Transformed them into shadows Of their former selves. Worst still, are the shadows Their former selves have cast On their late afternoon, Leaving them wondering what might have been If fate had dealt a fairer hand. My mother is a beauty queen no more. But to my mind remains a queen of the rough sea, Having taught me (through action, not words) that All you can do is build the best boat you can Then pitch it against the storm, Till the final wave (Snapping the wire, Switching to darkness) Takes you home. Hassan Abdulrazzak
If you've any comments on this poem, Hassan Abdulrazzak would be pleased to hear from you.