Okra
by Hera Naguib
Into hot oil, I toss the gooey okra.
Sizzling thumbs, I describe to Mother
over the phone, thicker here, extra.
She recalls how, once, I glared
into the pool’s water, convinced
my gaze alone could tease awake
its sleepy azure. Little Narcissus,
she laughs, I toppled over, splashed
into the pool’s airless placenta
—its memory choked my sleep
nights in a row—But it was for okra,
she recollects, soured with pomegranate
seeds and my reward for a swim
that I sat again at the pool's ledge.
This time, my floaties billowed
up from my arms. My palms clutched
at the bars. I whimpered each time
my father waded closer to pull me in—
his reaching limbs roused the water.
Its protean shadows boomed
as if untrammeled by anything else,
least of all me. Such assurance,
the water held. Such surrender,
I remember, to its own murk
and wallow, I’ve seen only once—
on those long hours when Mother
prepared okra. In her fingers,
each pod, sliced open, a gondola
of slime; the dried arils she lined in,
like stowaways eluding the night—