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This poem is taken from PN Review 198, Volume 37 Number 4, February - March 2011.

Three Poems Shazea Quraishi
My Mother's Embroidered Apron

I am lost in my mother's apron -
green parrots drip from the trees,
a peacock brushes past me
pulling its clockwork tail of children's dreams.
I breathe in the heat of cinnamon,
the fug of yeast. My mother's voice
fills me like smoke and her stories
lift me - I rise like a yellow balloon,
my feet, white ribbons trailing in the long, wet grass.

You may have heard of me

My father was a bear.
He carried me through forest, sky,
and over frozen sea. At night
I lay along his back,
wrapped in fur and heat. And while I slept, he ran,

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