What the River Keeps
Undertow
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the river keeps what we forget to carry:
a sandal, a promise, the colour of a scarf
my grandmother wore to her own wedding.
it keeps them the way she kept things,
folded, without comment,
in a tin that once held biscuits.
How did it leave you?Your reaction helps Noor Fatima know what landed.
my grandmother’s hands smelled of cardamomand the rain she let in through the windowbecause, she said, a house must breathe.i have tried every soap in Lahore.my hands only ever smell of hands.
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