Hiyam - Zeina Hashem Beck

My grandmother, Hiyam, whose name

means love, had none, gave none. Locked

her refrigerator door so her children wouldn’t

make a mess in the kitchen, sat them down,

fed them their sandwiches bite by bite until

they got bored and said they were full. Brushed

the tassels hanging from the sofa. Cleaned

the faucets until they shone like silver

flamingo necks. Beat anyone who ventured

to sit on the beds after they were made. Forgave

no one, not even her own skin. Drowned

herself a little more each day in the lake

of her mirror, dropped a pill, two pills, ten pills

in each morning—goodbye, goodbye,

most beautiful girl in Damascus. Retreated

when she noticed the wrinkles around her eyes—

first to the sofa, then into her bedroom, then into

her own mind. A week ago, she crouched

next to her bed, screamed

at the shadows to leave her alone,

told them she didn’t want to eat chicken,

promised her dead son she would tell everyone

he said hello, took off her clothes, accused

her husband of stealing her new skirt,

the one she had bought

twenty-something years ago—Where is it, she asked,

Why, you fool, did you take it away?

Calmed down when Mom arrived and told her

she’d taken the skirt to iron it, would bring it back

tomorrow. Went out on the balcony

for the first time in years, looked outside,

I know this thing. It’s called a street.

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Zeina Hashem Beck (20th century) Lebanon

Source: The High Window