I became a bride
then a mother
giving him female fruit, a daughter
and two miscarried children.
My girl is beautiful, perfumed
but dead to him
as the young child we saw
holding a pomegranate
on the Greek stele
in Ankara . I loved the city
and gave her its name, its shadow.
He didn't even care enough
to care. He wanted sons
and my womb kept failing.
He threatened divorce
but the council said wait.
They determined that I had sinned
( in some way) greatly shaming God;
and we had to pray. Atone
through song, fasting
and burnt
offerings of silk, parchment,
hair -- all
my vanities.
I told him this was madness.
He said it was the wisdom
of holy men
precise and sound
as the geometry
in our courtyard gate.
I grabbed his knife
and ran into the garden. The almond tree stood
almost flinging its long
limbs into the light like a whip.
I cut off a branch, ripped its flowers
and came inside. I begged him to beat me,
flog my body until its breath
coughed out the flaw.
He turned his head and hinged his hands
together. They shook.
His knuckles white
as the stone fruit on that grave
where something became
touchable, moving
upon the immovable.
________________________
So
many women in eastern or older cultures are still relegated to subservient
roles in their married lives. A son is almost a duty and if she cannot deliver
one, she is considered useless, almost barren. Even with modern science
available to prove the determination of gender rests with the male, it does not
penetrate in some of these rigid and ancient societies. I wanted to tell this
story from her point of view but also with a sense of strong character. She
uses the word beg in a mocking way, a dare hoping to strip down her husband's
pride and blame, hoping to touch some facet of his humanity, almost shock him
into being aware of her and how inhumane this act is she is asking him to
perform. As inhumane as his rejection of her and his daughter. The funeral
stele in Ankara
symbolizes the impermanence/permanence
of life and death, also how one's humanity is etched permanently in time while still having the ability to move
the heart of the living, generation after generation. And in her husband's
case, his cold disappointment/stony anger creates its own stele. What seems so
immovable may not be that impenetrable. Something deep within the stone
breathes, an echo of empathy and grief that longs to be released.
Pomegranates
( in Hellenic art/belief) were considered the fruit of death as well as
that of offering life. They may have represented on the funeral markers both a
sign that someone had died and that the life of that person (
like the many seeds within the fruit) would wander and re-bloom in the
dreams, memories and legacy of those who loved and knew them.
No comments:
Post a Comment