My mother doused herself in pale blue cloth and lighter fluid.
Inch by inch, she covered her flesh and tightened her shroud;
her eyes screamed regret as soon as her skin touched the match.
Wailing shrilly “ya, Hussain,” my mother went up in flames.
I shut my eyes tightly and counted to eleven.
I heard her last choke and the thud that came after the turning.
Her blue skirts turned white, and in my mind they still billow.
Thundering through the doorway my father came unannounced,
he took a single glance at my charred mother and shut his eyes.
Her burqa was no longer blue, her body was a mess of boils,
on hands and knees he swept her up, no sound did he emit from his mouth.
My mother took no path into heaven:
she spoke no gentle words but rather she whirled burning.
Her movements, like a dervish, I watched amongst the pillows.