Afternoon Son | Shahzadi Fatima Aimen
The feathers I keep tossing at the feline of my
first son, with golden eyes borrowed from melted sun,
help keep his hunting instincts alive, so that
maybe one day, when the mother comes back from
her stride in the park, he can jump high with his teeth
ready to bite, and she would say, I have a child.
A coat like the shine of dawn, orange hues dripped
over the snowy base. His rosy nose keeps archives of
all he has met. What world does he prepare himself
for? Because I had not known at one, two and three
of mice in kitchen cabinets and butter that has a taste so
poignant you lick your lips for hours. Chittering at crows,
paws capture tiny lady birds, staining them red. He may
have a mother, she’s the epitome of beauty, of poise,
but I’m the one who boops his nose, his saliva on my
palms, no knots. Eyes slowly open and close—I watch.
Shahzadi Fatima Aimen is a poet from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has appeared in The Writers’ Sanctuary, Dahlia Literary Magazine, and is currently serving as an editor at Eleutheria Literary. She suspects that in another life, she was a moth.