Noor Shahzad

Sunday

There’s day-old dishes in the sink, and the darks
finished drying hours ago. The water in this vase
of still-alive lilies is yellowing, and I’ve not washed
my face. I’ll get up in a few              

minutes—hours gone by. The sun drains
itself of day. There is no dinner, I’ll have
a cup of hot milk. If my mother calls
I’ll tell her about the fecundity 

of—she’s calling now. Off to shower, I let
her know. If my sister calls, I’ll ask her why the air
doesn’t just whisper in our ear and say I’ll carry you
for you. She doesn’t call, but now

my brother is calling. I tell him worrying
is silly. Tired of the dark, I turn on a lamp, finding
my shadow in the dim living room. I shrink her with
more light.

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Noor Shahzad received her MFA from the University of Massachusetts, Boston.