Fizza Abbas is a Freelance Content Writer based in Karachi, Pakistan. She is fond of poetry and music. Her works have been published on quite a few platforms including Poetry Village and Poetry Pacific.

Room 411

She lay too confined on a hospital bed,

a drape of selflessness over a camouflage of pretentiousness,

she had never in her life been this selfish.

A strange air of peacefulness

protected her from the thankless cries

that my larynx was involuntarily producing.

Its obstinacy saved me from the hefty cost,

and she finally responded —

firmly held my hand,

moved two pearl-white globular capsules,

that doctors called ‘eyes’ after she lost consciousness.

With her heart rate going up and down,

sp02 was not giving my mom what she deserved.

I was sure she would get her due

but the oximeter’s self-serving attitude pissed me off,

and I asked the doctor to remove the oxygen mask.

Mom looked at me,

perhaps to tell me that I sing better than Lata

because I have no breath control.

Funny mom!

I changed my clothes the other day — so unlike me —

showed mom the blue dress I wore especially for her

— she nodded,

‘I know what you are doing, beta.

Be you, be natural. Go and never wash your face —

my eyes are accustomed to the symbols of your indolence,

don’t disappoint me with these ornaments of self-care.’

They believed the left side of mom’s brain was severely damaged.

I think mom won over her stroke

but her adamant brain needed an outlet to showcase its strength,

so it stopped functioning.

A flower calmly rests in my hand,

enveloping the small grains of sand

that I secretly stole from my mom’s grave,

to tell others my interpretation of peace.

I don’t belong here

I love chipped crayons
they tell me colours can come in different forms:
pitch-black darkness can become the reincarnation of red
moonlight can subdue the proud ribbon-like body of the river
wise men need not have a white beard.
 
I often whisper to the wavelength,
Ask her to, once, and for all,
be flexible if dispersion is an absolute necessity
to tune into madness-
her least-favourite frequency.
 
Sometimes, I even read her poems
so she can know I have word bubbles
that don't blow my way,
similar to the paintballs
she complains of being too unruly and wild.
 
I am a laywoman
with no command on phonetics
deficit and the shit sounds similar to me
and I often tell my husband -
take care of calorie the shit,
he, being, the ultimate science guy
says, it's a good fat joke
 
Once in a while, we're on the same wavelength.
 
And nibbling the crayons, I often think,
I too can think.