The Morning of the Wedding

Upstairs, I make shapes
before the mirror. Vibrate

at the edges of sills. Turn
sparrow, turn jasmine, turn golden

cage. Soon: turn holy. Always: at risk
of vaporizing. From the window,

I watch my mother, in her disintegrating
marriage, cover the backyard

in Persian rugs. She sings,
and like most burning things,

her songs smoke
upwards and unlatch

the antechamber of my body.
Konna, konna re. O virgin girl!

She is remembering herself
from years ago. I pick up my comb

and brush it through
my hair for each prayer

she spent on this wedding,
her pearled head meeting

the ground again and again
until it became an infinite

moon. Yes, that same one.
Through her, I study manifestation.

Calculated repetition. Birthrights.
Her wanting. The difference between birdcage

and vestibule. The way naming something
in its wild infancy can sentence it

to a lifetime of waiting.