by Mona Arshi
Last summer was the first time
I caught a glimpse of my soul.
A daughter had saved me from
drowning in a yellow-tiled pool.
On the water’s surface a pair of nascent
antlers were melting away in the sunlight.
I am small, I am small, I say
shivering in my towel, bare and humble
in my child’s arms, my eyes fixed poolside.
The second time was on a train,
the rapeseed stinging my eyes –
that blizzard of yellow –
she was resting in the corner of
the window, hitched on a bee,
dust-bathing in pollen. Too soon-not yet,
I whispered to the tiny thing
and coward that I am, flipped
them both out of the window.
Then on the longest day a boy was falling…
he fell into Richmond, this stowaway,
fell into Surrey and I saw the soul
of this boy, the structure, its plumage,
parachute out of the plane dressed
in all its paraphernalia.
Now I am more circumspect.
I rescue petals from tea-cups,
appease wasps at my table, praying
they’ve all repaired themselves fully in
the ancient ways, in their yellow frocks,
in those scented fields.
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