motherhood

Zain Rishi

You are starting to shed
the language, to empty
the gallery, to fill those
spaces with stolen art.
You navigate oceans
under starless skies
holding onto rough
figments of what it
means, gists of it.
I'm learning

                    so much
  about you from TV
  shows you subtitle,
  odd words you cling
  to, family you forget.
  Like a language, I am
  your burden – a body
  once your own, a bag
  orbiting your carousel.
  I'm learning

                       how to be your
      son – a language you are
      always writing. With time,
      I'll write you too. I'll dry
      your eyes as our plane
      sets off. I'll point to our
      foreign haven beneath
      the clouds. I'll tell you
      I can't see it, but I bet
      it's beautiful
                          and wherever
          you land, I have always
          been waiting.

First published in Issue #30

Zain Rishi is an Edinburgh-based writer and bookseller, who is currently working on his debut novel.