Bright Dreams

Bright Dreams

[from my first collection of poetry called, Forty Names, published by Carcanet Press]

When I was ten, my mother made me a dress.

The blouse was in yellow—

the skirt membered in colors and distinct textures.

The pieces in tangent edged my waist.

Stitched together with one thread, and emanating rivers of color—

flowing toward the ground.

The skirt danced around my legs,

stirred by the wind.

I felt beautiful wearing it.

The dress became a symbol of a nomad—

an Afghan refugee girl,

with homeless parents.

The wanderers.

Thought the other mothers and daughters

in their mono-colored dresses.

For me the dress represented my mother’s skill.

Only she could make something so beautiful from the remnants of fabric

brought from Kabul.

The green and purple,

velvet in texture, subdued in color

stitched side by side with only yellow in between.

The red and blue,

satin in texture, vibrant in color,

stitched side by side with only orange on either side.

And in between

the pistachio and pink silk, she

stitched only black, to not disrupt the eye.

I wore my mother’s art with indefatigable joy.

Like the skirt’s colors,

I was filled with bright dreams.