Scrolls do not speak of us. The tsking brooms Of time always sweep us off the table Of history, herstory, theirstory; The wild, wild, wild Bone-ghosts that dust-danced in dining rooms Chicken unmourned, human unmournable Fish, egg-shell, tired duck in fading glory; And child, child, child. We led no armies, we bore no princes We did not hold the pen; We were only the shadow that rinses Clothes, plates, floors, and then Vanishes.
Hibah Shabkhez is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared in Zin Daily, Litbreak, Broadkill, Rising Phoenix, Big City Lit, Constellate, Harpy Hybrid, and a number of other literary magazines. Studying life, languages and literature from a comparative perspective across linguistic and cultural boundaries holds a particular fascination for her. Linktree: https://linktr.ee/