For instance, I went to Kashmir.
Smelled the flowers.
Watched my face scatter and gather itself in the sweet mountain water.
Wrote letters, perhaps to you,
Folded them into the wind, let the river decide.
I am still your mother.
But in this dream, I am myself first.
Myself, myself, motherhood.
A stitch, a contradiction, a wound that never seals.
I am brewing my blood to keep you warm,
Working my bones to make the fire,
Blowing on embers, holding them between my lips like a secret,
Like the last word of a forgotten prayer.
And when the fire burns out
Tell me, my child,
Will you still recognize the warmth in my name?