Sketchbook

At forty
Ladies’ bags become bigger
To hold blood-pressure pills and sugars lumps
And spectacles
To improve the eyesight
Making tricky letters
More friendly

In a secret compartment
They keep David’s ticket
And a prescription against hiccups
During eclipses
And a candle
As fire burns demons
Who sneak around at night
To cut women’s throats
And in the front compartment
A will:
I only possess “Traces of colour”,
(It stuck to my hand when two butterflies sat on it),
A sketchbook
And a brush
Which I donate
– Like any lonely woman –
To my country.

At forty
Hoarfrost sneaks up on one’s stockings
And the heart becomes an empty dish
When butterflies leave the house
On a Friday night.
Where do they go?
They settle on the shoulder of a sweet aunt
In the eastern side of the capital.
Six nights
The silent, sad lady
Sits on the balcony
Waiting for their return.

At forty
A woman says to her neighbour
I have a son
Who does not like to speak
May the Lord give me time
Until he says one morning:
Mother, go!
I am
Fine now.

كراسة رسم

كراسة رسم