Thammana Razak
​​​Autumn 2017

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Mirror cries of every woman I know
 
The leftover lipstick
on your finger,
you softly press it
on to the cream
of your brown
cheeks.
In the light of
a humid
afternoon,
the outline of your
body beneath
the sheer of a
white cotton kurta
reminds you of
sand valleys
of Rub-al Khali,
glistening sweat beads
like oil wells of the desert
every country
wants to own.
Soft untidy curls of
your long dark hair,
strands sticking to
the nape of your neck,
sweaty and hot.
In the mirror
you see your mother,
sometimes
your grandmother,
but never yourself.
Kohled eyes
and warm skin,
you tie your beauty
to your ancestors
every time.
oh how our women
even in the luxury of
their bedrooms
their own mirrors
wears modesty
like a veil
oh how our women
look in the mirror
see a beautiful creature
glowing and celestial
and never want to believe
it’s her own self.

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