By Sara Zubaidi
These familiar syllables that did frame
The feeling of perversion in my throat
For naught the bilabial nasal sound
That echoes a child’s sleepy melody,
A fleeting sprite in invention’s reverie
Felt in the birthing cries of her labour
Nor because it vibrates as the soft hum
In chambers close, untold tales softly thrum
Like notes lost in the void’s quiet breath
To hymns where willing spirits intertwine
Instead, repeated syllables throb keenly
Posing as the vivid evocation
Of how my mother preaches about her
Mama, as if she is speaking of God