When Landscape Becomes Woman

I was eight when I looked
through a keyhole

and saw my mother in the drawing room
in her hibiscus silk sari,

her fingers slender
around a glass of iced cola

and I grew suddenly shy
for never having seen her before.

I knew her well, of course —
serene undulation of blue mulmul,
wrist serrated by thin gold bangle,
gentle convexity of mole
on upper right arm
and high arched foot —
better than I knew myself.

And I knew her voice
like running water —
               ice cubes in cola.

But through the keyhole
at the grownup party
she was no longer
geography.

She seemed to know
how to incline her neck,
just when to sip
her swirly drink
and she understood the language
of baritone voices and lacquered nails
and words like Emergency.

I could have watched her all night.

And that’s how I discovered
that keyholes always reveal more
than doorways.

That a chink in the wall
is all you need
to tumble
into a parallel universe.

That mothers are women.