Green eyes wide with wonder, she has no fears:
Root of gold, swelling gold bulbs, a gold shoot
Blossom and shrink in the bewilderment
Of doomed innocence. She knows not the loot,
The trophy in triumphant merriment
Borne away from her treacherous home-land
Is to be herself, when the feast is done.
She touches turnips turned by the hand
Of Midas, those lies unfit to feed one
Crumb to her heart, and sees her mother’s tears
Fall. On her mother’s face a fey smile trips
Between the realms of the living and dead.
Over her shoulders cascade gold turnips
Spread upon soil of luxuriant red;
And in her throat bloom screams that no one hears.
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.