pakistani suns 

Ranyah Khan

there is a science to this. to the bricks that are being carefully balanced on themselves by two kissed hands; to the writhing heat that is soaked into their toughness and that rubs mouth to body on anything that tentatively grinds against it. i remember my initial introduction to this maternal love—to the overbearing presence suffocatingly embracing every newfound follicle that plowed itself through my body. i can taste her in the recesses of my mouth; feel her sear my cheeks and pillage through my gums and leave traces of herself on the tip of my tongue and the insides of my molars with every bite of her pakistani affections. i can feel her spoon me through the metal of the charpoy every evening at eleven p.m; the sharp dig of the cotton ropes as they grasp my skin and body while tenderly tucking my soul. she peeks around bazaar doors and hides between the ruffled ground that radiates upwards to waver and plow itself against my body. i can feel her under my eyes; in my tears and digging down, tearing through my throat and into whatever tissue she can fervently grab at. the reluctant oneness consumes my body as she finds some pit of my skin to stuff herself into, and i am reminded of the womb i was torn from; i hear her words on my tongue and through my voice and feel her in my skin and see her in my hair and eyes; and i am reminded that i am still a part of it.


Ranyah Khan is a highschool senior in Delaware. She has previously received publication in Prometheus Dreaming for poetry.