Naseema Bibi,
I write to you
in a language you may not read
but one you understand through flesh

motherhood

from one mother to another, naseema bibi
your title is wife, but your name ends in ma, to whom I address this
in this, our mother tongue, so to speak

it is about the land, this mother land as they call it
who can walk across it, who can pick its apple blossoms,
who can let their horses graze upon its grasses,
who can dream by its clear waters, sucking on a peach

any child, I would imagine

but it is about the land, this mother land
and it was your child, whose body
raped, 
electrocuted, 
broken, 
bitten, 
mutilated
she was 8
she was ate

any child, I could not imagine

but I don’t have an ear for this cruel dialect of the mother land, 
same character, different tone I’m told again and again
I stumble over words to make sense 
as you, Naseema walk through this valley

I write to you because I cannot imagine your pain
but I want to hold it for you
and remember

Asifa bringing home the horses, laughing
and neighing with them, patting their bellies and braiding their manes

Kiran Chandra