Mid Life Crisis
Though the stretch marks have faded
the skin around the scars still feels numb
when your hand touches my waist
or as I button up a shirt
in the morning before work
grading papers in the office
I pause to look outside the window
and see the trees staring back at me
their branches sweep through the air
as if God had sent them to us
because He could not come himself
to hold us
at work the next day I find
their corpses scattered
like ancient warriors
around the lush green gardens
in the afternoon’s frozen sunlight, I read
an email from the university
it informs us that they had they had to cut the trees
to make space for “seven interdisciplinary centres,
an amphitheatre, and a student centre.”
After the long commute back home
after feeding the baby dinner
and putting him to sleep
I sit on the sofa
staring into the darkness
my hands empty
no one left to hold
or care for.
But deep into the night
my hands go searching for your body
wrap themselves tight around your shoulders
as if by gathering you in my hands
I can gather everything that is slipping away
trees and trunks
time
and beauty.
The next day I make sure
I go out to touch the red roses
the years have taught me to spot the signs
soon the spring will steal its way
out of the garden
while they are alive
the petals are such a deep red
so blood-like
each time a bud
yearns to bloom
the earth gives birth
to spring
again
again
again
Aneeqa Wattoo is a writer and translator based in Lahore, Pakistan. Trained as a historian, her writing explores the intersections between gender and the politics of spaces in South Asia. She is the co-founder of The Creative Room—an online interdisciplinary humanities focused on South Asia (Ig:creativeroom_co). Her poetry and nonfiction have appeared or are forthcoming in Meridian, New Ohio Review, Southern Humanities Review, New Plains Review. Her poetry has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.