Nizamuddin.
//davdmcyr


My daughter hides her
face from sickness.

Whenever she leaves her
shoes at the door,
she leaves her rings,
pulled from her toes,
in her pockets,
sewn in secret
into her many pleated skirts.

No dust will remain
captured, pressed by the silver
after her dutiful heel-scrubbing.

When removed from
their sealed enclosures,
her hidden rings
will still glimmer
with a fresh film of polish.

Few but I
have seen her full face
and her toes jeweled
simultaneously.

Fresh flowers she dries;
wilted and hung flowers
she hides in Bibles
(holy books)
in hotels, libraries,
sanctuaries, hosts' desk drawers.

In each flower
she gracefully inks
her mother's last words:
"Child,
praise to transit at dusk."