dimensions

How many dimensions
I have to walk through
to get to you

Sheath of rage, six
veils of unforgiven
trespass — one for each
generation disappeared
by one side
of your bloodline, hate
stored for tomorrow’s prayers, theft
of a mate, one heart’s chamber
after another,

dark walls I must peer through
to see all of you,
locked doors I maneuver with only
fingernail and eyetooth,
you invite me to break your double-
paned windows
and enter

pass through splinters of wood
and mirror
witness the moods in which you wander
to tell you:

Red pools around you
where memory harbors
your warrior years,
womb under your armor distended, a child
waiting to reenter this realm

of hands breaking limbs, throat
hiding truth, feet crossed in
defense against the ground beneath;

and didn’t you blame your
own mother
for the birth you alone desired?
Lied and promised obedience
in exchange for that vital flesh,
bones of white carbon
the marrow fed to your
young?

What other food is there?

Your right foot on the precipice
over the chasm between your soul
and your destiny —
will you jump, little
sister, or remain
with the shards of yourself
you’ve collected?

I am only the messenger.
Arrived to deliver the words
that re-member the parts
of you, the journey that
wearies you, forces for-
getting of who
you are,
ancient star.

I censor nothing. Prologue,
epilogue, a hundred chapters,
index and glossary, include all
you try to erase, names you changed
to escape yourself.

Too late now, I already
see what you’ve written
in the lines of your face,
on planets you’ve walked
across like cobblestones,

the graves that have dis
integrated you
a thousand times.

All this I read to
you now.

What are your questions?

© 2012 Tahminah Zaman