27 July 2007 | Vol. 7, No. 2
Ghazal for a Comfort
Wrinkled new red body, startling in the empty air, once blanketed
by mother flesh, now swaddled tight in an imitating blanket.
Sometimes the hierarchy works, or looks to: On the news,
to hear the farmer, the prince sits on the blanket.
Just a pilled shred left, it was then the cloth of solace, the frayed
satin edge woven rhythmically by small fingers, the blankie.
All goods in one bag, a street-stumbling body ravaged by
no water no home, but some dignity in a cloaking blanket.
Quilted from castoff scraps, embroidered with feminist furor,
beaded clits, blood in yarn, laid on a dorm bed—outrage in a blanket.
Shiny and silver, a future anodyne? For the emergency
that may never come, tucked in a car door, the space blanket.
The wife of the Shearman knows: he clips the cloth
smooth, and against her skin, soothingly, he lays the blanket.
About the author:
Amy O'Hair has poems forthcoming in cold-drill, CRATE, and Caketrain. Reading the work of Pakistani poet Faiz was her introduction to the ghazal.