Hedy Habra

How the Mirrored Pond Suddenly Speaks

  

From my bedroom window,

I watch the rain sowing eyes

on the surface of the pond,

 

each drop drowning

inside maddened ripples

funneling vertiginously

 

into its murky bottom

each eye a fallen star sparkling

dimples over dark skin

 

its mutable constellations

redesigning an alphabet

for me to decipher.

 

SETU MAG

 

 

 

A Dream, Uncovered

  

I planted indoor bulbs doubting they would ever sprout,

and now mini-daffodils emerge out of a terra cotta mug.

 

From an elongated crystal vase, tall green stems rise,

immobile flames swelling into white fragrance.

 

As I face the emptiness of the white page, a desert to cross

says Bachelard, a solitary road, cold as the porous crystals

 

on the deck outside my window. I imagine words are dormant,

            awaiting the right conditions to surface.

 

Last fall, as I dug deep to plant tulips and narcissus,

            I found a limp frog, eyes half-closed, as if half-drunk.

 

I rushed to bury it again as best I could, hoping

            she would reenter her interrupted dream,

 

But I no longer see the earth with the same eyes. 

            grass, bark, my own hands, have become foreign,

a field yet to explore.

 

 

First published by Parting Gifts

 

Awakening 

 

Rising earlier each day, the young girl watches dawn budding in

warm colors through the lace-curtain veils covering her window. She

opens her hand to stop the light beam piercing the semi darkness,

yearns to touch the glimmering motes of dust, watches her fingers

become transparent, a white glowing lining surrounding them, thinks

of anemones’ fingers playing an invisible underwater instrument as

notes fill the space, turn into words rushing from every corner,

crowding the room. She senses the air has become dense, heavier:

she moves slowly as though in a dry aquarium while her one-eyed

fingers grow in size, gaze through the window as the walls close in

on her, enveloping like a tidal wave.

 

First published by Danse Macabre

From Under Brushstrokes (Press 53 2015)

 

 

Immured

 

I live in an underground house, in the flank of one of the pyramids

of Giza. I breathe heavily the enclosed air, so thick it rubs over

me. I think of the doomed priests of Egypt who were buried alive.

 

This house has a secret wing, I move in it like in a dry aquarium.

Crystal and pink marble chandeliers cast a faded light over the

damask Louis Seize chairs. I address the elegant seats as if I expect

an answer. I am amazed at the impeccable condition of the room.

 

Delicate tapestries and old oils cover its walls. Carrara pink

marble tables tiptoe over pastel Persian rugs. This part of the

house is never used. No one knows of its existence, not even the

maid.

 

I have a sleep-in maid—she has no face, like in Mexican muralist

paintings; she spends her time sweeping the floor, an automaton.

We work together incessantly. I see endless corridors, a maze of

rooms waiting to be cleaned.

 

There are no windows. No one knows the house and I exist.

I live only for the house, a victim of the Pharaohs’ eternal curse.

 

 

First published by Linden Lane Magazine

From Tea in Heliopolis (Press 53 2013)