Writer's Corner

i bought a prayer rug in old Andalusia
but the years have not treated it well,
it lives now only to shame me

its pattern is faded, its edges are tattered
and the fibres are torn flesh from bone,
it breathes on, but only so to shame me

i have wept on that rug, bled on that rug
loved on that rug and died on that rug
i have worn holes through it from kneeling,
its suffering continues to shame me

ruie MullinsShe was born on the night of the blue moon when shooting stars filled the skies; complete with ten fingers and ten toes a mop of black hair and eyes that stared right through you as if they knew a great secret. I was still half asleep from the long night of labor and birth when the nurse gently tapped my shoulder and placed her in my arms. As soon as the nurse left the room, I unwrapped her tightly wound blanket to check that she had all the essentials; yep they were there and I smiled to realize she was a real beauty. Amazed that such a beautiful creature could have come through me, I reminded myself what Kalil Gibran, the Prophet had written, “your children come through you, not from you”.

The night lay like black silk
silence loomed from every corner
as a soft layer of mist fell
on the window
the car seemed to sense that it too must be still
nothing dared to interrupt her thoughts
how could it end this way
no shouts, no recriminations
just a whimper so small it could hardly be heard
it was over after all the years of trying
it was finally over